


antarctic adage

by blue000jay



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: "Canon" Compliant, Antarctic Empire, Family Dynamics, aka i decide how the world goes, also this is my political fantasy lbr, my hot takes on how i think the lore should be, sbi, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, you might cry idk i did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay
Summary: “Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look upon them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death."- Sun Tzu, The Art of War(My take on the beginnings of the Antarctic Empire, and the family that grew alongside it.)
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 179
Kudos: 695
Collections: MCYT Fic Rec





	1. .1.

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! 
> 
> lmk if you want to read more of this-- it's just sort of a passion project that i'm posting for fun. as of now i don't really have a plot, it's just character development and SBI shenanagins, as well as me characterizing Phil as morally grey like he should be :) 
> 
> have a good read!

Phil takes a moment to tug his scarf up over his nose, the cold scalding inside and bringing tears to his eyes. The wind is the worst part-- whipping across his face and leaving bright red marks across his cheeks. Or maybe the brightness is the worst, making him squint and forcing him to scrounge up a pair of goggles, never used in his normal day to day life. Or even the snow, piled up to his waist in one moment and blown away to his ankles the next. His legs ache from the work of walking through it, hips and quads and calves tender with every step.

On the horizon, a village lantern glows.

_ Thank god _ , Phil thinks, trudging forward without so much as a hint of hesitation. The lights are comforting in a way that he hasn’t felt in a while, and the snow almost feels easier to push against as the town comes more and more into view. The lantern is singular, hanging against the side of the barn, but off in the distance Phil can see more distant lights and even the shape of buildings if he squints. A barn is perfect, however, and since he thinks it’s in the middle of the night he decides to squat. It takes him a few minutes to get inside, but when he finally finds the door and pries it open he’s greeted by warm darkness and the smell of hay. Pigs snort and shuffle somewhere in the room.

He shuts the barn door behind him and gropes his way around the dark until there’s a hay bale underneath him. From there it’s not hard to collapse, shrugging off his bag and outer jacket and draping it over himself. He’s fucking tired-- everything hurts, and he’s not about to pass up an opportunity for sleep. He can deal with the landowners and village whenever the snow stops, or in the morning. For now, he shuts his eyes and rests.

Something is poking his nose.

“Go away, Ian,” he mutters quietly. Someone snickers and he grimaces, turning over a bit in his haze. Whatever is poking his nose is still doing so, and it’s warm and wet and--

“Eugh!” Phil reaches out, shoving whatever was licking him off and staring right into big brown eyes as he does so. The world comes into focus, and the snickering doesn’t stop. It’s only joined by a soft moo as the calf that had been nursing on his nose stumbles backwards. Across the barn from him is someone much too small to be of any threat (at least in his mind) so Phil lets his guard down slightly, blinking the sleep from eyes and rubbing the cow spit from his nose.

“His name’s not Ian,” says the figure, and oh shit, it’s a little girl. Phil brushes hay out of his hair. “It’s Henry,” she explains, creeping closer, and now that he can make her out better in the lamplight he sees she’s probably nine or so. Maybe younger. Her hair’s in braids, half-hidden under a fuzzy hood, and she’s got mittens on her hands as she reaches out to pet the calf and gently lead him back towards one of the pens in the barn. Phil is quiet, sorting himself out as the lock slides back into place and gathering up his things. The village kid doesn’t seem pissed off, however, and when she turns she’s even smiling.

“Sorry--” he begins, but she just shakes her head.

“Come on,” she tells him, gesturing with her mitten and going over to pick up her lantern, and then after a second a bucket of milk. In the pen, another cow shuffles. Ah. “My grandma would scalp me if I left you out here to sleep with the pigs.” 

“Would she now?” Phil asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and pulling his own hood up. She nods. The barn door opens to reveal snow-- although the wind has died down some. Now it just falls in heavy flakes from the sky, big enough that Phil can practically catch some in his hand as they make their way through the drifts and towards a house he had missed last night in the dark. The girl laughs, holding the bucket with one hand and the lantern with the other, although the flame has snuffed out already. 

“I’m Gwyn,” she says, lifting one leg up high and plopping it down with force. Around her foot, the snow puffs into the air and Phil can’t help but smile a bit.

“And I’m Phil,” he says, watching her do it again. “You’re pretty young to be on barn duty.”

“I do it when the snow’s too bad for Grandma to. I’m good at it.”

“Dang. Pretty brave.”

“Gotta be brave to be sleeping in a random person’s barn, too. Or dumb. Where are you going? There’s not a lot around here, you know.”

“Oh, you know,” Phil says, and he makes sure to keep the answer vague. “See the sights.” 

“You’re going to be snowblind by the end of your trip,” Gwyn says, and it’s with such certainty that Phil can’t help but laugh as she pushes open the door. 

Another voice greets him then, much older than the young girl who is currently scurrying to put the bucket of milk and lantern on the floor, then sitting and tugging at her boots. “Gwyn?” It calls out, then again. “Who is that? Is that Levi?” 

“Nope! It’s Phil! I found him in the barn!”

“You what?”

“I found him in the barn!”

“Well then. Hello. Are you looking for trouble?” A woman appears, up in years but not elderly by any means. She holds herself tall, and while Phil is still taller than her, her presence cows him a bit. Especially due to the fact she’s got an axe in her hands.

He’s meek when he responds. “Not from you, no.”

“But that implies you are looking for trouble somewhere else, then,” she points out, and he nods. After a moment, the axe falls slightly, and then she leans it against the wall and gestures for him to come inside a bit more.

“In a way, yeah. I’m heading to the pole,” he explains, glad the axe is out of the equation.

“Ah, you’re one of  _ those _ young people.” Gwyn’s grandma grimaces, then sighs. “Well, Phil, you’re free to spend the night in an actual house instead of a pigsty, if you like.”

“I don’t want to intrude--”

“Oh, hush up. It’s alright. As long as you’ve got good intentions, it’s perfectly alright. My name is Mildred, but Gwyn insists I go by Milly. She tells me it’s trendier.” She gives him a wink. He tries to wink back, and based on how she laughs at him, he fails. It’s nice to be on her good side, however, and he sets to work tugging off his gloves and working his stiff fingers out. Gwyn’s back at his side in an instant, however, tugging on his sleeve and trying to pull.

He glances down, and she grins. “It is! It is it is it is! Phil, will you look at my doll collection? Come see! I’ve got a bunch, this one’s blond like you--”

He’s never minded kids, so he follows after a moment to see.

\----

It’s late that night when Milly finally gets to probe him like he’d been expecting all day. She’d held off until now, settling a mug in front of him as Gwyn snores across the room. “So. What do you plan to be, traveler?”

“Hm?” Phil looks up from the liquid in his mug-- warm and tan. Coffee or hot chocolate. He can’t tell just yet. It’s steaming.

“What do you plan to do, once you have reached the center of the ice?” Milly raises her eyebrows, and Phil sort of feels like a child being scolded, which is ridiculous. He’s not a child. Technically. He’d seen more of the world than any other eighteen year old he knew.

“Oh-- well. Enter the portal. See what’s on the other side,” he says, shifting back until his shoulder blades hit the wooden seat back behind him. He doesn’t miss how Milly glances to the side, eyes landing on her sleeping granddaughter for a moment before flicking back to him.

“A death sentence. No one has ever come back,” she proclaims. There is so much certainty in her voice that it sounds like fact. 

Phil tips his mug slightly, watching the hot chocolate reach the rim before he pulls it back, milliseconds from spilling. “I know. I’m not like the others.”

“No. You’re cockier.” She smiles slightly, tipping her head, and Phil feels like maybe he’s being scrutinized now in a way that’s different from before. The mug in his hands is starting to burn slightly, so he shifts his fingertips and busies himself by blowing away the steam rising off the top. It’s still too hot to drink, but he sips anyways after a second. “A word of caution,” Milly says, startling him from the reverie of the burn on his tongue and making him glance upwards. She’s staring at him still from across the table. “Don’t go too deep.”

“...That’s the whole reason why I’m going,” Phil points out. “To get to the center.” 

“I don’t mean in the ice,” she says. The silence stretches on, but that appears to be the end of the conversation. Phil shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable, and once again sips at the mug in his hands. It burns. 

“I won’t,” he tells her. 

He makes no promises.

\----

The next morning is the morning he leaves. Gwyn tugs at his pant legs and asks him not to, but Phil just smiles and pats her head. Her hair is braided this morning, and he kneels after a second to tug her hood up over her ears and snuggle it in tight around her face. The fluff is pure white and clean, and she grins at him through the fuzz. 

“You’ll see me again,” he promises, linking his pinkie with hers. “Listen to your grandma, yeah mate?”

“I will,” she says, shaking their hands up and down and bouncing her head. “Fight the monsters for us!”

“I’m not your golem, kid,” he teases, shuffling to his feet again and patting her head again anyways. It’s hard to fight the smile as he turns to Milly. She holds out a bag, and after he’s secured it to his back, a thermos. 

“To fight off the cold,” she quips, tapping the side of her nose gently. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” Phil says, tucking the thermos away. He’ll have to drink it tonight when he stops-- there’s no way the drink could keep warm for more than one day. But he’s grateful at least for the sentiment. “I’m sorry I can’t repay you--” he begins, but he’s quickly shushed by the flap of Milly’s hand and a cheeky grin.

“Be quiet,” she says, reaching out to slap Phil’s shoulder lightly. “We enjoyed your company. And we’ll enjoy it again. Just remember what I said.”

_ Don’t go too deep. _

“Right,” Phil says, inhaling the cold air and feeling it freeze up in his lungs. “I will.”

Then he turns, and heads off south, the compass in his hand pointing him the right way. The rest of the village waves as he goes and Phil waves back-- he’d come to know faces better than names, but they’re all mostly irrelevant as he passes through. He thinks he’ll be back-- he knows he will. He made a pinky promise after all. The weight of the bag Milly handed over sits heavy on his shoulders, but he bears the weight of leaving and forges forward, into the snow.

Being in the snow is worse once you’ve grown somewhat used to  _ not _ being in the snow, Phil finds. The first night he stops, digging out a snow cave to stay the night in, his legs ache just as much as they did the first time. The thermos is still warm when he unpacks it-- not hot, but pleasantly warm. It settles in his stomach when he lays down to sleep for the night, spreading out and ending up in his fingertips, tingling. He already misses the village and it’s warmth, the bed of hay he’d slept on for nights in a row, and the soft sounds of other people or animals around him. Despite how tired he is, sleep does not come easy. He’s already exhausted, and the warmth helps him drift off in an instant. The next days are similar, passing in monotone shades of white and silver in the snow. Occasionally a bent tree will poke out of the ground, gnarled and twisted and empty of leaves, and Phil will make his way over and climb it. From the vantage point, all he sees is blinding white and powdery snow. It takes him three days to notice any sort of change, and the first clue is the incline. Slowly, he starts realizing he’s on a hill. Then the hill turns into a mountain, and then he’s squinting up the side of a wall of ice.

“Well, shit,” he says to no one in particular, and starts looking for a way around. Of course there is none, so he’s left to carefully shrug off his bag and take out the ice picks, then climb his way up. It takes forever and he’s shaking so hard by the time he reaches the top that he nearly slips and falls-- twice. By the time he collapses on his back, out of breath and trembling, he’s so exhausted he nearly shuts his eyes and falls asleep right there. But the wind is freezing and his nose is already numb, despite being in the full sunshine, so he crawls to his feet after a few agonizing minutes and stumbles upwards. There are a few more cliffs in his way, but they’re all short climbs. Nothing like the first. His shoulders ache, his hands cramp, his ankles lock up and he loses count of the amount of times he nearly slips and falls. If he fell out here, it’d be a death sentence he knows. He tries not to think about it.

It takes two days to scale the mountain entirely. Phil is so fucking done by the time he reaches the top, checking his compass as he clambers up to something resembling a plateau. There is no more climbing to be done-- the other side of the flat area drops down. This is the top. 

The compass needles in a circle as he walks the perimeter of the small peak. It’s strangely flat. He’d been to other mountains, seen their peaks, and this one is weird. It’s almost a tiny plateau, literally, sitting on top of the mountain instead of a craggy peak. The flatness of the ground seems wrong. Unnatural.

It takes him five minutes of digging to hit stone, and another five minutes to find the trapdoor.

Phil’s not stupid. He props open the trapdoor and hides behind it, using it as a breaker against the wind, and lights a match from his pack. He drops it down the dark hole-- the fall is not long. It lands on something before sizzling out barely a second into the drop, so Phil lowers his rope and then himself. The match appears to have landed on a stone floor, and once he’s inside and away from the wind he’s able to light a proper fucking torch.

It’s a small chamber. Stone surrounds him on all sides, abandoned torches on the walls. He lights them carefully, illuminating the room and taking a moment to rest. If he’s found what he thinks he’s found, well. He’s going to need it. He doesn’t shut the trapdoor-- there’s a fear that if he does, snow will pile on top and it’ll be too heavy to open again. He’d be trapped. So he leaves it open, letting small snow drifts form in the center of the room. Despite that, it’s still the warmest he’s been in ages. He’s able to light a real fire, using the wooden torches on the wall as firewood, and eats the first hot meal he’s been able to have in a week.

Triumph has never tasted so delicious.

“So close,” he tells himself that night, pouring over the pages of the book he’d brought with him and re-reading his own notes. There’s another trapdoor only a few feet away-- he’s gone up the mountain. Now he needs to scale back down, this time on the inside. Then, at the center, is the portal. 

This journey is much shorter than his trek up the mountain. The inside of the mountain is a place called a stronghold, and it’s winding hallways serve for much better transportation than snow and ice. It hardly takes him a day to make sense of the labyrinth, marking his route with chalk and blocking off corridors and dead ends until he finds the center room, and the portal.

It doesn’t quite match up to the pictures in the book.

In person, it is much more terrifying.

Phil approaches it with caution. It’s a black void, essentially, stars littering the space and glimmering, entrancing him for ages until he pulls himself away and inspects the rest of it. Below the portal is lava, popping and bubbling and heating the room. The portal border is made of an odd yellow stone, and no matter what he tries, nothing seems to break it. Phil debates on staying in the portal room for the night, since the lava already gives off heat, but the portal shimmers in the corners of his eyes enough that it unsettles him to no end and he ends up sleeping in the hallway outside.

The next day, he prepares. He’s leaving a lot of his things in the hallway. His bedroll, his bag and rope and extra jacket, some of his food. He leaves his book and the compass, and after much deliberation the thermos stays as well. His armor emerges from the depths of his bags, enchantments glittering across the surface. He adds a few more while he can, having stumbled across a dilapidated library with a few old, but still useful books. He’ll need it, he thinks. Pots are another issue entirely-- he’s been saving them for this moment, but only a certain amount fit right on his belt where he can reach them and after a long few hours of deliberation, Phil decides on health and regen. A pickaxe is attached to his body. His bow goes across his back, arrows on his hip. His sword is sheathed at his other hip. His axe is sheathed on his back as well, and then he’s ready.

Phil stalls.

Is he ready? He checks his food. Is his armor okay? There are no cracks. No imperfections. Whatever is on the other side of that portal, he’s ready for. His regen pots are perfectly made, sweetened with sugar. He’s even got ender pearls ready, sitting in a small pouch on his hip in case he needs a quick escape. Those had been hard to come by, but he’s got them.

Yet, he stalls. Nerves take over. He sits at the portal room entrance and wills himself to go in, to face whatever’s on the other side. He can hear the portal from his spot, can hear the slight popping of lava and of the unnatural slice of sky sitting in that room.

It takes him two hours to hype himself up. He steps into the void.

Going through this portal is nothing like he’s ever felt before. Nether portals spit you out in the Nether, a hot, unforgiving dimension where the only rule is violence and beasts run rampant. The trip there is similar-- warm, uncomfortable, something sizzling under your skin and making you dizzy and nauseous for a few moments. This portal is the opposite of that in every way. Phil is cold. Phil feels like he’s dying, the air sucked out of his lungs and encircling his head, freezing his eyes and nose and ears. He can’t breathe. There is no nausea, no spinning sensation, and for a brief moment Phil’s mind flits to  _ this is it _ . This is the end. There is no other side to this portal-- only a brutal, sucking void that ruins you until the end of eternity.

Then he’s spit out the other side.

Obsidian is cold against his knuckles and he nearly falls on his face. That would be impressive-- enter a new dimension and come out of it with a broken nose, not even of anyone’s fault but his own. He grips the floor with care, taking a minute to suck in a breath and steady himself as he tips his head up and looks around for a threat-- there is none. There’s nothing, in fact. He’s encased by the same yellow stone that had made up the portal outside, and when he stands the ceiling is fairly tall and also made of that stone. Beneath his feet is obsidian, and he stomps slightly against it. Considers taking out his pickaxe and breaking it, seeing what’s below. But then he turns, and his exit is clear. In the corner of the room is a crudely-carved staircase in an upwards direction, and when he makes his way over to it (feet steadying with every step) he can barely see the end.

“No time like the now,” Phil tells himself, and after another deep breath, makes his way up.

The first thing he notices is the Enderman. They’re everywhere, which is odd for such a rare mob. Usually enderman hide in the shadows of tall trees and don’t come out-- it makes their pearls rare items, but here, there seems to be one of them every three feet. Phil immediately averts his eyes towards the ground, halting his ascent on the stairs and instead keeping his gaze ground level. As long as he doesn’t look, he should be fine. Carefully, he grips the stone under his fingers and drags his gaze up again, avoiding any of the tall shapes and instead checking the surroundings. From what he can tell, he’s on some sort of… floating island? The sky is inky black and devoid of any stars, some sort of void just swallowing this world whole. From his vantage point he can see towers, seemingly made of obsidian as well, and on top are hints of something purple? He can’t quite see what it is, so he cranes his neck and peers upwards--

and something roars, dipping down towards him and appearing out of the void. Phil ducks on instinct, swearing under his breath as huge wings flap overhead and for a moment, all he can see is a dark belly and shining scales.

A dragon.

“No fucking way,” he says to himself, scrambling back down the shitty staircase and hiding in the room he’d spawned in. The dragon had definitely seen him, however, as he can still hear the roars from above and occasionally, the flap of wings. That makes sense. That’s the reason no one has ever come back, he realizes. He hadn’t seen an exit portal, only the distant shape of something or other before he’d stumbled back into this safe pit. Killing the dragon must let him out, he realizes, and no one’s been able to do it yet.

It takes him three days.

Three awful days of climbing smooth obsidian towers, of explosions and dragon’s breath, of hiding in his spawn room when he gets too exhausted to fight any longer. He runs out of arrows on the second day, and after watching the dragon from below, arrows littering her hide, he realizes that she has a pattern. He notes it down, scratching it into the stone and watching for hours until finally, finally he thinks he might be able to utilize it. The crystals are all gone at this point-- he’d figured out what those do the moment he’d seen the magic, rushing to the dragon’s aide and smoothing over the few arrows he’d managed to land. He’d nearly died doing the first one-- hadn’t expected the explosion and been thrown backwards, off the tower. He was lucky he’d kept his bucket so close at hand while climbing up high. It’d only been that stroke of luck that had saved him. He finds the dragon’s breath is also potent after being struck, stumbling back and having to take nearly an hour to blink the effects and pain out of his eyes. 

But he waits, and he watches, and he does not rush. Phil might be young and ambitious, but he’s not stupid. He scratches a shaky pattern into the stone with his fingernails and checks his armor, cracked and beaten down already despite the enchantments. He rations his food. He pulls out his axe, and watches as the dragon floats down from her circles above, coming to rest just above what he thinks will be the portal out.

He sprints, lungs burning as he rushes to make it under her in time. His feet hit the ground and his armor clanks and he hasn’t slept in three days and he is so, so, so tired but he runs, avoiding enderman and chucking a pearl to reach the portal frame in time. The dragon is not expecting him, based on the way she startles and lifts her wings. She is also tired-- bright eyes less bright, hide littered with arrows and marks from his sword and axe. She lifts her wings but she is a second too late.

His axe hits true.

No blood is spilled in this moment. The moment Phil becomes legend, he is not covered in gore and grime, only his own sweat and blood. The dragon lifts slightly, light emitting from every crack in her skin and between scales until Phil has to look away, she’s so bright. Then that light disappears, and she is gone. For a second, Phil is standing there with his axe still raised and staring at the spot where she once had been, thinking-- maybe that’s not it? Maybe there’s more? This can’t be it.

Something clinks on the top of his helmet.

He tugs it off, glancing around as tiny orbs of light fall from the sky where the dragon had disappeared. They’re yellow and green and gold and shining, filling the portal frame and sinking into it. When Phil dares to pick one up in his hand, it dissolves into his palm and leaves him feeling warm and sated. He’s still fucking exhausted, yes, but his legs ache a little less and he feels almost comforted. Beneath his feet, the portal frame flickers.

“Shit--” he says, glancing down and then around, then scrambling out of the mess of orbs. “Shit, shit shit--” 

The portal flickers to life. It’s the same as the one in the overworld, stars dancing in his vision and making him dizzy just by peering in. He’s not sure where exactly it will take him, and he’s not ready to leave quite yet. He wants to stay for a bit now that the biggest danger of the dragon is gone, check out the rest of the island, examine the remains of the crystals. He wants to sleep. Off in the distance he can see some sort of new structure, floating in the air, and he should look at that too. But in all honesty, he is tired. So he makes his way back to the room he’d spawned in, shrugs his armor off, and shuts his eyes. 

\----

Marvelous things come in threes.

There are three bones in the human ear. Three miles in a league, three stages of pregnancy, three blind mice in a story. Beginning, middle, end. Small, medium, large. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

An oldest, a middling, a youngest.

There are three things that need to be known about Phil Watson and the days after he killed the dragon.

First, he slept. He slept for ages upon ages, until his eyes crusted over from disuse and he had to rinse them out upon waking. His body needed it after the fight he’d had with the creature, and it was well-deserved. He slept until the aches in his hands and feet subsided some, until he could push himself off of the obsidian without shaking. He slept until he was rested, and only then did he set out to explore the world he’d “freed” of the dragon. The dimension was rough, was dangerous, but he traversed it with the confidence that could only come from being the main character in a legend. He made his way to the outer portals and explored them, finding himself in forests of strange fruits and cities with no people.

These cities are where the second thing comes into play.

He finds his first pair of wings on the wall of an empty yellow room, feathers fluttering from the device and fitting perfectly against his back when he shrugs them on. It’s like they were always meant to sit there. He melds his brain with them without hesitation, and learns how to fly within an hour.

When all is said and done, Phil brings three distinct pairs of wings back with him to the overworld. Bird, insect, cloak. Feathers, membrane, cloth. These elytron carry him from place to place and are proof of his venture, of his success. They become a mark of legend, one of strength, one of conviction. All because they lie against one man’s back.

The third thing to know about this story is what Phil returns to.

The overworld is just like he left it, and yet nothing will ever be the same.

The spheres of warmth he’d shrugged off at the portal, after killing the dragon, had found their way into the overworld somehow. He assumed it was through the portal (which had spit him out in an unpleasantly barren tundra miles east of the stronghold). The only thing was, they had appeared  _ everywhere _ .

Magic had increased tenfold.

Potions were more potent than ever. Clerics honed their skills at levels never before seen. Mobs organized in a fury, taking down a well-known kingdom with their rage. It was both a blessing and a curse. Phil had broken some sort of dam, it seemed, releasing the floodwaters behind it and letting them enter the overworld with abandon. People were confused at first, but slowly, word traveled. The first village he came to didn’t believe him. It wasn’t the one he had stumbled upon before-- no Milly or Gwyn. But they regarded his wings with interest and took some of the fruit he had gathered in the other realm. He told his story over a fire that night in the local inn, other travelers listening to him with wide eyes and disbelieving stares.

But it was enough.

By the time he reached the village where he’d met Milly and Gwyn, they’d already heard of his success. News of him was spreading, and quickly, just like he wanted it to. They regard him with new eyes, and everything between them is irrevocably changed.

“You did good,” Milly tells him one day, as he practices flying with his beetle-set of wings. He lowers himself to the ground, letting her cup his cold cheeks in warm hands. The wind was harsh, up in the sky.

“I have to go,” he tells her. They all know he can’t stay, despite Gwyn’s insistent pleading.

“To do what?”

“I have to protect the stronghold,” he rationalizes. In his mind, he can already see the armies amassing to take the realm from him. “And everything beyond it. The dragon’s not there to defend it anymore.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Milly says, and her words from before echo in his head.  _ Don’t go too deep _ . Maybe he already has, and maybe she can see it. “There’s still a dragon.”

She lets go of his head as he ponders that. No, he’d already killed the dragon. “No,” he says, and then watches as she glances him up and down, and the wings splayed proudly against his back. He twists, staring at them over his shoulder. They buzz wickedly. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” she says. 

He leaves the next day. 

The stronghold is just as he left it. The journey is much quicker this time, since he flies up the mountain instead of scaling it. The trapdoor is open, and he jumps down, sweeping the accumulated pile of snow beneath to the side with one large, feathery wing. He tucks them against his back carefully as he descends, finding his way to where he’d left his things before. It’s sort of haunting. It’s only been two weeks since he was last here, at most, but so much has changed since the last time he held this book, used this bowl to cook in. It’s the same and different all at once. It shocks him, unsurprisingly.

He stays in the stronghold for a few days, taking his time in protecting the portal. He goes through it once, just to see, and he’s back in the other realm. It’s the same as he left it as well, so he just hops through again and makes his way back to the mountain and stronghold with his wings. Traveling is so much easier when you can fly, he finds. 

Phil decides the trapdoor is unnecessary and dangerous, so he shuts and locks it from the inside. Instead, he carves a tunnel out to the side of the mountain, and makes it easier to defend. He can see the world from that tunnel, and everything approaching. No one does for a while. He sits alone at the pole for almost a week, until one day--

“Hello!!” A voice calls. It’s from outside, clearly, fuzzy from the snow, and Phil flinches. It had been days since he’d heard a voice, and the sound puts him on guard immediately. He scrambles to the opening he’d carved out of ice, peering out with no small amount of caution. “Hello?”

“Hello…?” He calls out hesitantly, and there, at the bottom of the last ice wall, is a person. They’re bundled up and seemingly prepared for the climb, turning with surprise when Phil’s voice comes from the side instead of the top. 

“Oh, hello!” They call again. There are spikes on the bottom of their shoes that clink as they come closer.

“Who are you?” Phil asks, hand moving to the sword on his hip inconspicuously. He’ll defend it if he has to, even if that’s not what he wants. 

“I’ve heard legend of a king up on this mountain,” says the man cheerfully. His goggles glint. “I thought that the king might need some help.”

“I’m not a king.” The words fall from his lips, but Phil instantly realizes it’s probably a lie. If this man came in search of a king, that meant the words had already spread far beyond his control. That was alright. He didn’t mind too much. The idea was  _ almost _ appealing.

“You’re not?” The man’s head tips to the side. Phil notes a smudge of grey hair sticking out from under his snow cap. 

“Who are you?” Phil asks again, more forcefully this time. The man smiles and laughs.

His name is Pete, and they share dinner together over a fire. Pete tells him about the stories spreading, about the rumors and legends and myths. He’s already become a mythical figure it seems. The kid who killed the dragon and became king.

“But I’m not a king,” Phil insists once more, setting down his spoon in favor of lifting the bowl to his lips. “I don’t have a kingdom.”

“You could say this is your kingdom,” Pete points out, waving a hand around at the dank stone. Phil wrinkles his nose. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You said the whole point of you being here is to protect it, surely? What better way to protect than to sit directly on top of it?”

Phil wonders if Pete is really here to help, or just to steal his victory right out from under his nose. It seems genuine, but he’s not sure. “This is a shit place for a kingdom,” he says slowly, picking at the splinter of wooden bowl underneath his fingers. “It’s in the middle of the antarctic. No crops could grow here. It’s always cold. The sun comes and goes as it pleases. Why would anyone want to live here?” 

“I’ve seen more impossible things than that happen,” Pete declares, and Phil thinks maybe he’s talking about Phil himself. “I know people. We could build on this. Protect this place and start a haven for those who harness the dragon’s old power. You know how strong the magic is around this area?”

Phil gestures to the pair of buzzing wings on his back. They practically don’t stop when he’s here.

“Right!” Pete laughs. His laugh is uproarious, and it inexplicably makes Phil want to laugh with him. It makes him want to trust him. “You’ve got the foundations for a nation of your own here, kid.” 

“I guess I do,” Phil mutters, staring down into the dregs of their dinner. Pete’s hand lands on his shoulder, warm.

“You gonna take advantage of it?” He asks. Something in his voice is suddenly dangerous. “‘Cause if not, others will.”

Phil chews on that for a moment. 

“We need a nether portal,” he decides. Pete’s hand squeezes his shoulder, and when he looks up, he’s grinning. “And call whoever is on your good side to help.”

And so a nation is born.

Word spreads just as quickly as news about the dragon. People start to show up. At first, it’s one person at a time, their crew of builders and people growing slowly over the weeks. Houses are constructed just south of the mountain, a new village taking shape. Pete is by Phil’s side, helping the whole way. He’s unsure at first if he can be trusted (the easy shape of his smile and the way he lies so smoothly sets Phil’s stomach alight with unease) but over time, he proves himself. They defend the stronghold together more than once. There is blood on Phil’s hands, and while it may be necessary, it still sort of sickens him.

That sickening feeling lessens over time, until holding a blade starts to feel good.

The village grows into a good-sized establishment. Someone mentions plans of building him a castle.

Phil doesn’t decline the offer.

People show up in groups now. Families start to move in. Instead of the monotone drone of working men and women, there are now shouts of children in the streets and people bickering over the price of bread. Phil sheds his elytra some days and just walks in the streets, buys a pastry, bundles himself up and watches these people live their lives. It’s grown into a city, and it’s his by all means. People recognize him, give him thanks, and defer to him to make decisions. By all rights, he is a king.

His empire has just been born.

It will become legend.


	2. .2.

Running a kingdom is tiring.

Phil spends the first two years doing it relatively alone. Yes, he has Pete, and other helpful advisors along the way, but he’s alone in his under-construction palace near the mountain. The halls are empty except for him and the people he’d practically hired to move in, and it’s strangely jarring. Phil hadn’t grown up alone. He’d had friends-- a family, even. He’d always had someone by his side, until--

Well. Until. 

Until now, when the halls of this strange cold palace are empty.

He finds himself walking them, sometimes, drifting back to a time when he wasn’t so alone and by himself and when things were warm. When he had hands to hold and people to hug. People who were truly  _ his _ , and not just parts of the machine he was running. 

Phil doesn’t believe in fate.

It’s on a foray to the Nether that he first finds him.

They’d built a Nether portal in the center of the imperial palace (a name given to his home by the people-- not himself. Internally, Phil just thinks of it as the castle. Or, when he’s tired, home.) only a few days after establishing the area-- they’d wanted to be able to travel quicker, and the Nether was useful for bringing materials in. The portal saw a lot of use in the first little bit of building, but the activity had died down since another was constructed below the church of the town. Enough so that Phil has taken to stepping in for a break from the cold at times, wandering around the clearing that they’d created near the portal in the other dimension. 

Phil’s busy looking at mushrooms when it happens. One moment he’s bent over a blue mushroom, poking at it hesitantly, and then there are crackling footsteps behind him. He’s not stupid-- of course he’s brought a weapon, so his sword is in hand in an instant and he’s swinging.

He’s not expecting the figure to parry back with a golden blade, or be so small. He’s seen baby piglins, of course. But this is different. This figure is small and seemingly human. The shock throws him off enough that he stumbles as he steps backwards, sword loosening in his grip some as the instinct wears off and caution floods in, but then the kid is attacking him again for some ungodly reason. 

The gold sword in their hand is sharp enough to cut through two layers of his outfit, but soft enough to not get any further. The kid is panting, eyes wild and scared and Phil isn’t quite sure what to do. The sword presses into his shirt as he stands there. Phil doesn’t raise his own sword back. He’s killed before, but never a kid. He would never.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Phil says softly, watching the weapon tremble slightly. He sheathes his own sword easily, watching as the little guy-- he thinks it’s a guy, but he can’t quite tell-- stands there. He’s clearly expecting some sort of death, based on the way his head is bowed and breath is coming in shaky starts. “Hey,” Phil says again, and the sword at his stomach lowers slightly. Shoulders stiffen, eyes glance up, and Phil lands a hand on his shoulder. The kid is warm. Unnaturally so. If he didn’t know any better, Phil would think he was sick.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeats softly, kneeling down as the muscles under his fingers tense. The sword comes down as he goes, pushing it gently to the side with careful fingers. “What are you doing out here?” He asks. There’s no reply. Beneath his hand, he can feel angry heat stinging his fingers. Whoever this child is, he’s born of something from the Nether despite his distinctly-human looks.

Phil turns to look over his shoulder at the portal, debating taking him back to the settlement, and the shoulder under his hand is wrenched backwards and away. Before he can do so much as react, the child is running, scrambling and skittering over the netherrack like he’s flying, and there’s the soft rustle of leaves and then he’s gone. A bush trembles. 

Phil leans down to pick up the golden sword left behind, cursing internally. He ends up leaving the sword against the portal, leaned up against the obsidian and waiting for it’s owner to return. He doesn’t give chase-- he has a hunch, and will need time to prove himself right. So Phil leaves, stepping through the portal and back into the chill of the arctic and vows to return.

When he does, the sword has disappeared from where he left it. 

Phil takes his time. He leaves presents, small ones. Whatever this child is doing, it’s clearly cognizant enough to know that the portal is where Phil comes from. Mostly he leaves food-- bread is taken, so is steak. Pork is left untouched. Phil leaves a jacket one day, and that is also taken. It’s nearly a week before he sees any sign of the kid in person again, and even then it’s just the slightest rustle of brush around him and around the portal.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Phil calls again to the empty space. Nothing emerges.

He knows he should probably stop. Whatever this kid was, he was clearly surviving somehow on his own. Phil should stop before this situation gets even more out of his control-- it’s like feeding a wild animal. If he stops, it’ll be independent enough to survive. But he can’t stop. Every time he considers it, he sees the kid’s face again, terrified and gaunt in the red tint of the nether. He remembers promises made late at night to someone he loved as a kid himself. He remembers the empty cold hallways and the rooms left unused in the palace.

So he keeps going back, spending more and more time just talking to the empty space of the clearing around the portal.

A week and a half later, he steps through the portal to find the kid directly at his feet.

He’s not expecting it, and nearly steps on him. Phil stumbles to the side, dancing an odd dance to avoid stepping on the kid directly, but panic runs through him like ice when he realizes the kid isn’t moving. No, he’s just lying there, curled by the obsidian like he’d been trying to make it through and not had enough strength to crawl the last few inches. For a terrible three seconds, Phil thinks he’s  _ dead _ , but then a hand twitches and Phil can see the steady-- and quick-- rise and fall of his chest. Words tumble out of his mouth unwittingly, cursing frantically as he spins around and drops to his knees beside the small shape. He doesn’t move, and Phil’s hands dance for a moment as he tries to decide what to do. There’s clearly blood, clearly a wound, but Phil’s not sure where it’s coming from so he gently reaches out and turns the kid over, fingers shaking slightly as he inspects. Once he’s on his back, it’s clear that the kid is bleeding from his stomach-- one of the hoglins must have gotten him, Phil reckons, having seen a similar pattern before. It’s so big on such a little body.

He doesn’t hesitate after that to pick the kid up, wrangling him with one hand and the other used to put pressure on the wound.

He stumbles back through the portal, grasping the kid close as he shouts for help the minute cold air hits his face. Phil’s not uncomfortable around wounds, but this is a kid, and that was a lot of blood he saw underneath him. And holding his body so close-- he can feel how light he is, and it’s sort of frightening. Someone hears him and obviously comes running, because then Phil is telling someone to get a doctor and he can see frantic faces around him as he holds the kid close, sheltering him from the shock of the cold. 

It’s not long before he’s ripped away by someone certainly more qualified than he is in medical training. What was her name? A cleric, he thought, one of the women from the village nearby. Samara? Samantha? He can’t recall, but she takes his hand and tells him to sit and that the little boy will be okay. Phil doesn’t exactly trust her, and insists to follow.

He sits, and waits, and watches as the cleric woman bandages the little boy up, a potion being forced down his throat. Phil watches as the tiny wounds on his face heal up, scratches from brush and general life healing from the effects, and takes the time to study that tiny face now that he can. It’s pale and pink, sharp teeth poking out slightly from the bottom lip, covered in muck and some blood as well.

“Phil?” The woman is talking to him, interrupting his internal narrative and anxieties. It’s a blessing in disguise, really. She sounds hesitant, but once he snaps out of his funk and looks at her, she settles. “He’ll be okay. It was big, but the potions helped a lot. He’ll be on bedrest, and probably won’t wake up for a bit, but he’ll be okay.” She pauses. “Where… where on earth did you find him?”

“Nether,” Phil says, clasping his hands together and running his thumb over his own knuckles. Absently, he notes there’s still blood on his hands. The cleric hands him a wet cloth. 

“How did a kid get into the nether on his own?” She asks, turning to look at the kid in the bed with a worried look. 

“No idea,” Phil shrugs, fingers twisting in the cloth and twisting, twisting. 

“Well, he’s safe now,” she says. They exist in silence for a moment, staring at the kid. His chest rises and falls under the heavy blankets, and he seems so small in such a large bed. Phil can see the cleric peering at him out of the corner of his eye after a minute, and then, she turns to go in a quiet rustle of cloth.

He sits.

Eventually, he can’t just sit there. Phil takes the time to wet a new cloth (not the stained one he’d rubbed his hands with) and gently wipe the kid’s face clean. He combs his fingers through the pink hair that falls to his shoulders next. It’s ratty, ratty enough that Phil gives up on his fingers and finds a comb instead. He runs it through, scooching his chair close enough to the bed that he can take the ragged pink clumps and work through them gently enough that they don’t pull and tug. He supposes that the kid won’t mind waking with a sore skull, since the rest of him is hurt, but the tedious work settles his mind a little.

Sooner than later, the kid’s hair is smooth and clean and Phil feels a little better just by looking at it. The kid’s still asleep-- he hardly moved at all, in fact. 

Phil sets the comb down beside the bed, and sits, and waits.

At some point, he must fall asleep. When he opens his eyes, this is clear, because he hasn’t been back to his childhood home for years at this point. Yet, it’s exactly as he left it. A fire roars across the room from him, the wood creaking under his socked feet when he stands up just like it did before. He looks around, dragging his hand over the wooden table as he passes, and then goes and stares up the stairs.

It’s dark up there.

He glances back, at the warm light of the fire and the kitchen/living room. It’s comforting. It’s nothing like the chill that’s creeping down the stairway, the shadows reaching out for his arms and legs and torso. It wraps around him, and it’s cold. Behind him, fire roars. The difference in sensation shocks him, his face and front cold, his back on fire. It’s like he’s being split in two.

_ King _ , the shadows whisper in his ears, and then there’s a crashing noise.

His eyes snap open and he’s awake again in a moment, shooting to his feet and hand grasping at his side. His sword is gone-- right, he’d taken it off and leaned it against the wall at some point. Despite that, he doesn’t panic, immediately looking for the source of the noise.

Across the room from him, the kid is sprawled on the floor, one of the cleric’s carts toppled over beside him.

“Shit!” Phil’s heart drops, and he rushes forward. The kid is moving, and through the curtain of his hair he can see bright, frightened eyes. His fingers scrabble on the cold quartz floor, and Phil settles on his knees beside him, hands stretched out to calm.

“It’s okay!” He says, trying to soothe. “It’s alright! You’re alright!” At the sound of his voice, the kid only seems to get more panicked, breath coming heavy and eyes still wide. He’s still trying to get away, but he’s either dizzy from blood loss still or just plain exhausted, based on the way his feet refuse to cooperate. 

Phil really doesn’t want him to hurt himself, and there’s glass shattered around them from bottles, so after a minute, he reaches out and scoops the kid into his arms.

It’s like a switch is flipped. He goes entirely limp, and Phil is able to gently hold him in his lap for a moment.

“It’s okay,” he says again, peering down and brushing the strands of hair away from the kid’s face. They should find something to pin it back with, or cut it. “You’re alright.” When he manages to get it all to the side, he finds bright eyes staring at him, fuzzy and terrified. Something crunches beneath his knees when he shifts.

“You’re alright,” Phil repeats, watching as the kid’s eyes flicker for a second. “I promise.” 

Something seems to snap in that moment, because the kid just stares. Then slowly, he lets his head fall forward, gently landing on Phil’s shoulder. He’s so incredibly warm, Phil thinks, getting to his feet and holding the kid tight as he does. The bed is only a few steps away, and as he lies him down again he misses the warmth the second he’s tucked in. His eyes are shut already, and by the time Phil’s done tucking him in, he realizes he’s asleep again.

“Is everything alright?” A voice startles him, and he jumps, turning to find the cleric woman at the door again. She glances from the child to him, then the mess on the floor.

“I think it’s fine,” Phil says. She comes in, presses her hand to the kid’s forehead, and then gives him a knowing look.

They clean up the shards of glass together in silence.

\----

How does one take care of a child?

Phil’s barely into adulthood himself. Pete voices the idea of handing the kid off to someone in the township below, someone who already has kids and is better suited for caring for one.

Phil spends hours sitting at his bedside, and shoots that idea down.

First off, the kid is a flight risk. He tries to get up multiple times a day, really, and Phil eventually asks for someone to be installed outside the room as a precaution. The kid isn’t a  _ prisoner-- _ he’s just injured, and Phil doesn’t want him to hurt himself more. Putting him in the town and with someone new just seems dangerous and irresponsible, frankly.

Secondly, the kid has taken a shining to Phil and only Phil. He tolerates the clerics, but any other attempt to touch him by anyone else ends up with teeth marks and occasionally blood drawn. He hasn’t spoken, but the actions shout volumes. Phil is clearly the only one the child trusts remotely, and he doesn’t want to break that. 

It’s one day, a month or so later, when the first few words are exchanged between them. Phil’s been teaching the kid how to read slowly, letters and words taking shape slowly. He’s smart, picking up on it quickly, and Phil’s having him work through exercises by recommendation of a tutor through town. Phil’s sat beside him on the bed, working on braiding his hair (still long, thanks to a tantrum thrown at the mere sight of scissors) and tucking it out of his face, while the kid scratches out letters with a borrowed quill.

“That’s an ‘e,’” Phil points out, reaching with one finger to point to the letter he’d gotten wrong. “Try again.”

“Shit.” 

Phil sits there, hands frozen in the kid’s hair.

“Excuse me?” He asks, tipping his head and catching the sight of a tiny smile flashing over the kid’s face. 

“Shit,” he repeats, and then redoes the letter below the initial wrong attempt. It’s flawless. Phil opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“Let’s not use that word, mate,” he settles on eventually, going back to braiding and trying not to let his amusement show through his voice. “If you’re in a talkative mood, tell me something useful. Like your name.”

There’s silence for a little bit, and then the kid hums.

“Technoblade,” he says, and Phil nods.

“Technoblade is it,” he agrees. An odd name, but he’s not going to argue if it is insisted upon. Techno scrawls another letter, and Phil tucks the last braid behind his ear. He settles back, stretching his legs out and sighing. Techno snickers.

“Oh, shut up,” Phil says, making sure his tone is lighthearted. Techno just snickers some more, head hunched over his letters, and grins. 

\----

Phil’s picked up a shadow.

Technoblade has healed, with the wound from the hoglin only leaving a scar now on his belly. He’s filled out a bit as well, eating better. Phil spends nearly every night with him; they share dinner either in one of their bedrooms or in the small tea room he’d designated as their dining area. 

During the day, Phil has things he has to do. He’d spent less time with Techno over time as he’d healed, and now that Techno’s allowed to be up and about, he’s taken to following Phil like a baby duck.

He’s constantly with him, either hiding in the shadows of his elytra or sitting in chairs at meetings. It’s almost funny, seeing a kid like him sitting between tradespeople and mayors, but Phil allows it. A few times Phil is told he should probably send Techno to the town, to a home where he’s not alone and just with one person, but any attempt to bring this up to Techno is immediately shot down through scalding glares alone.

Eventually, Phil forgets the idea entirely. Techno has made the palace more like a home than anything previous, and seems content to stay.

He doesn’t talk a lot. At first, it’s singular words, and he swears more than Phil would like. Phil is the only recipient of his conversations, and over time, Techno warms up to the idea of speaking. It’s on a sunny day when their first real conversation is held, walking outside and Techno following as they pass by one of the sparring pits, where soldiers and adventurers train to fight mobs. Phil doesn’t notice how Techno stops, only realizing when he’s taken a few steps away and realized he’s lost his shadow.

Techno’s watching one of the women in the sparring pits, staring as she grunts and beats up one of the mannequins with a wooden sword. His eyes glint slightly in the sun, and he doesn’t glance up even when Phil rests a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s up?” Phil asks, and Techno lifts a hand to point.

“I want to try,” he says. Phil glances from him to the pit, and then back to him again.

“How’s your stomach feel?” He asks, hesitant. Techno glances down, tearing his eyes away from the fight and poking at the center of his stomach.

“Fine,” he promises, turning to look up at Phil again. “Please?”

For a second, Phil is thrown back in time to three months ago when he’d first met Techno, a rabid kid with a golden sword. He remembers how he’d fought, desperate but skilled.

“Alright, sure,” Phil says, because why not?

They end up in the pit beside the palace, the dirt packed firmly under their feet as Phil sheds his elytra. He figures having Techno spar him would be better than just whacking aimlessly at a mannequin, so he finds the right sized sword for Techno and then one for himself. He’s not stupid-- he’s not going to fight very hard at all, really. Just enough to get a taste of what Techno knows already.

He watches as Techno holds the wooden sword, staring down at the grains and turning it over and over in his fingers, like he’s studying it. He holds it out, a move Phil is familiar with, and tests the balance. Then he hums (a quirk Phil had picked up on) and brings it to his side again.

“Ready?” Phil calls out, and he gets a nod in return.

The fight is short and impressive.

Techno disarms him within a minute.

“Jesus,” Phil says, staring at where the wooden sword lay in the dirt now, wiping his hair back from his face. Techno’s grinning at him, all sharp teeth and pride. “How did you know how to do that?”

“Dunno,” Techno says, and then points to Phil’s sword. “Again?”

They go again. Phil doesn’t go as easy on him this time-- he’d let Techno win, technically, in the first one. But even now, when he’s putting a bit of effort into it, Techno is astoundingly good with a blade. He’s familiar with it, and he’s not afraid to use his small stature and quick feet to dance around Phil like a whirlwind. By the time Phil has knocked the sword out of his hand, he’s actually winded from how much he’d had to follow him in circles.

“Shit,” Phil says, and Techno echoes him like they’re standing in front of a canyon.

“Shit,” he mutters, staring at the sword he’d been forced to drop and concede. Then his face hardens and he picks it up again. “Again.”

And so they go again. And again, and again. Phil goes easy on him for the first few rounds, not wanting to push him past anything, but Techno starts to realize this in the fourth or fifth round. And from there, he uses it to his advantage. By the time they finish sparring, sweaty and tired and cheeks red from being out so long, Techno has won about half of the rounds in total. 

By Phil’s estimate, Techno is eight or nine. Phil is more than double his age and has three times the amount of experience, and yet he’s being beaten. 

“I think we need to get you in lessons,” Phil tells him as they head back to the palace, ruffling Techno’s hair fondly. Techno just grins up at him.

The next day, he finds him a tutor. 

Phil has work to do-- he has a city to help run, and a stronghold to protect, after all. But he takes time out of his day to go find Techno and the tutor he’d hired. They’re in the palace courtyard (soon to be atrium-- the snow piles too high, they’d found) and both have the same wooden training swords Phil and Techno had used the day earlier. As he watches, it’s clear the tutor has the same train of thoughts he did. At first he goes easy, and then toughens up more and more until they’re legitimate fights. 

Later, he asks Techno about it at dinner.

“It was easy,” he says, words clipped and unsteady. He’s talking more and more as time goes on, but only when it’s just him and Phil. “Wasn’t that hard to beat.” 

Phil sips his soup, nods, and fires the tutor the next day to find someone better. 

The next one is better than the first. It’s a man named Nestor, and Techno immediately appears to like him. Phil watches from the sidelines again, and this time, Techno loses more than he wins. It’s definitely better, Phil decides, so he ignores Techno’s mild complaints that night in favor of keeping him on.

It does mean they’re separated for most of the day now, however. Phil has his things to tend to, and Techno is with Nestor and the other tutor, for schooling.

He misses his shadow. Incredibly so, actually. He often finds his wings stretching out unconsciously, searching for the body to tug into his grasp and make sure he’s safe. There’s no tugs on his elbows anymore, no flashes of pink and blue in the corner of his eyes as Techno wanders and follows aimlessly, taking in every detail of information with sharp eyes. Phil wonders if he’s learning something of equal value with the schoolteacher-- he asks Techno a few nights into the teaching, probing conversation out of him carefully.

“What do you learn about?” He asks, and Techno pokes at his fish with a fork, looking both bored and tired. His eyes perk up a bit when Phil speaks, and then he glances down again.

“History,” he says. He doesn’t expand on the subject.

“Ah,” says Phil, taking another bite of his dinner. “What kind?”

“Old kind.” Techno’s slowly been coming around to humor. His type happens to be the dry, sarcastic kind. Phil sometimes doesn’t catch on to when he’s joking, but this time it’s pretty clear.

“Ha ha, very funny.” They crack grins at each other. Techno’s teeth are either getting bigger and sharper, or Phil is getting more used to seeing him smile. Either way, it’s a delight. “Which history? The world? Or us?”

“Both.” Techno clinks his fork against his plate, leaning his elbow on the table and then his head in his hand. Phil doesn’t bother to reprimand him for it. “Big world. You came, you won.”

“I did, yeah.” Phil sets his own fork down, sensing the coming conversation. The word is practically written all over Techno’s face before he asks it.

“How?”

“Hard work,” Phil says, tapping his fingers against his arm lightly. Across the room, the fire flickers, an orange glow. “Luck. Skill. Stupidity. Did they tell you what I did?”

“Killed the dragon,” Techno says, and now his fork is down on the table too. He stares at him. 

“Yup.” Phil nods. Taps his fingers. “And that’s why I’m here. To protect the stronghold where the portal is, and the world beyond it.” 

“Why?”

“Because… it’s powerful.” 

Techno seems to chew on that. More than he’d been chewing on his dinner, at least. When Phil cranes his neck to look at his plate, it’s hardly been touched. He doesn’t comment on it-- at least he’d eaten the potatoes, which is all Phil can really ask for. Something about vegetables, or whatever. He waits another minute or so for more questions before picking his own fork back up, and continuing eating. Techno doesn’t just yet, instead staring at a spot on the table between them.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Will you show me?” He asks. Phil glances up.

“What?” He asks, and Techno gestures to the vague direction of the mountain behind them.

“Show me,” he insists. 

“Oh, buddy--”

“Show me!” Techno cuts him off, and that’s… well. It’s the first time Phil thinks he’s heard anything more than slight curiosity or annoyance in his tone. He sounds determined, actually. 

“Techno, it’s dangerous. We hid the entrance a long time ago. We only go in if the alarm is tripped.” Phil doesn’t let him know how often it happens (too often). They’d sealed off the top of the stronghold, and the entrance carved out by him-- what, two years ago now? The entrance carved by Phil had been cleverly and expertly hidden. It didn’t stop people from trying, however. The alarm went off every few months, if they were lucky. “I’ll show you someday,” Phil promises, setting down his fork. “When you’re a little older, okay? We’ll go together and I’ll show you.”

He extends his hand out over the table, pinky exposed.

Techno eyes it. “Together?” He asks, and then, “How soon?"

“Soon enough,” Phil tells him. “I promise.” This seems to be enough to convince Techno, because after a moment, he reaches forward and locks pinkies with Phil. They sit there for a moment, then Phil gives their hands a shake and lets go. 

\----

Someone calls Techno a prince, one day.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, resisting the urge to stick his finger in his ear and wiggle it around, dislodging anything that might’ve distorted the words. “Repeat that?”

“The little prince,” says the woman in front of him, one of the merchant’s guild members from the city. “I asked if the prince was doing alright up here, with the cold? I’ve got little ones of my own, and I know how uncomfortable it gets sometimes for them. There’s a shipment of heavy wool down in the storehouse. It’s a pretty red, I think it’d suit him. The blue makes everyone look pale.” 

Phil raises a hand to his cheek, a little self-conscious all of the sudden. She’s looking at him expectantly, and maybe a little amused.

“Sure,” he says after a second, because he’s startled and doesn’t know what else to do. “Send a few yards up.” 

He mulls over her words for a long time after she goes. A little prince. Kids of her own. Insinuating that Techno was  _ his _ kid. 

Phil didn't put much thought into this, really. If anything, he’d referred to Techno as his ward to anyone who asked. Someone young he was taking care of. Someone young, who he consoled at night when he woke up crying and held back to sleep. Someone young who he fed and housed and clothed, who made him swell with pride when he got excelling marks on the tests from the tutor. Someone who he had maybe started to love.

Phil is young. Phil is only twenty and a half years old, but he runs a well-oiled kingdom and is a legend in the stories of common men. 

_ A kid can’t be  _ **_that_ ** _ hard _ , he rationalizes.

The next time someone asks, Techno is his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hullo!
> 
> so, techno's a baby (: jk, he's like, eight. i wanted to do family dynamics and i love writing it, so this is how it came out, especially bc i wanted to explore phil's relationship with techno, especially if he raised him from childhood into adulthood (and how potentially that affected the both of them)
> 
> hope you enjoy! kudos are appreciated, and comments even more.
> 
> follow me on twitter! @toobbo_


	3. .3.

Promises are fickle things

Once upon a time, when the world was greyer and Phil was still a kid, someone had held him in their lap and told him a story. It had been a story about promises, and the breaking of promises, and their power that was held in the invisible connection. Promises are what made Rapunzel’s father give her up at birth, promises are what turned frogs into princes, promises are what killed the wives of Bluebeard.

Phil doesn’t make many promises if he can help it. The stubborn kid in front of him is one reason why.

“You promised,” Techno says, sounding terribly betrayed. “You  _ promised _ I could come with you to see the stronghold. That was six months ago. Phil, I’m going.”

“Techno--” 

“I’m going.”

It’s hard not to waver under the pressure of a pouty lip and puppy eyes. “...fine. But you’re staying behind me at all times. And if I tell you to go hide or run, you listen. Is that understood? Same goes for Pete, or any of the other soldiers with us.” Phil tries to make his voice stern, like a parent. An authority figure.

Techno is silent, staring at Phil in triumph, and he eventually has to give in and hope that Techno agrees. It’s unlikely, and Phil does trust his skill, but Techno is also somewhere around nine years old, and Phil does not want to put him in the path of a sword if he can help it. 

Plus, it’s the middle of winter, and snowing heavily outside. The trek to the hidden entrance is miserable, even for weathered soldiers. Techno ends up following in Phil’s footprints as they go, sticking close to his elytra and wearing more than a few layers. They crack their way into the stronghold, Pete in the lead, with Phil right behind, and a couple others behind him. Techno sticks with Phil, quiet as a mouse, and that’s fine by him.

“I’ll go this way,” Pete says, flicking his fingers down one hallway. “You go the other. We’ll meet up by the portal room?”

“Fine by me,” says Phil, and he tugs his sword out from it’s sheath. Behind him, he can hear the sound of Techno mirroring his action.

He may have gotten him a sword for a present, yes. He’d been so proud of the high marks on his schoolings that he’d rewarded the good behavior with a gift. The iron was especially well-smithed, and a few jewels sat inlaid on the handle. It wasn’t diamond, but it was sharp and formidable when used properly. Phil trusted Techno to use it properly. Now seemed like a proper time, so he says nothing when it’s taken out. 

They split up, with Pete taking half of the men and Phil taking the other. The alarm isn’t specific-- it only tells when someone has entered, not how. But how is a separate problem entirely, so Phil keeps his eyes and ears open as he heads down the halls. The stronghold is long and twisting and confusing, but he knows it like the back of his hand. This is the easy part, searching. They peek in and out of rooms, dead ends, down stairwells, and Phil can guide them all without hesitation. 

Phil sends a group down one hallway, one he knows is a dead-end, to check, and then surveys the two soldiers left with him.

Two soldiers. 

“Techno?” He calls, whirling around as panic drops into his stomach. 

Around the corner, someone screams.

All of the blood in his body turns to slush. “Techno!” Shit, what had he been thinking? Bringing a kid into the stronghold? And to search for potentially dangerous intruders? What had he been  _ thinking _ ? Phil’s moving before he can register it, before the screaming has even stopped, and the soldiers behind him are also giving chase. Phil is infinitely faster, however, breaking into a run and throwing himself around the corner, eyes frantically scouring the next room in front of them. The stone expands, spreading out into a wide space that’s somewhat dingy and dark.

There, in the corner, is Techno. He’s not the one screaming. In fact, his mouth is shut, face determined as he holds up his sword and the kid underneath him wriggles and kicks and squirms. Phil is on them in a flash, twisting Techno’s wrist just right to get him to drop the weapon, and then surveying the scene under him. The shape under him-- small and scrawny, is still screaming. Techno’s got his knee on his chest and after a minute, Phil physically lifts him off of the other. In a flash, the pinned kid is scrambling backwards and away, bumping into the stone walls as Techno turns his head to glare at Phil.

“I had him!” He says, and he sounds both proud and upset. “I was getting him!”

“Techno, that’s a kid,” Phil says, glancing between the two. “He’s probably-- what were you doing, going off on your own?”

“I saw him, and I got him.” Techno frowns at him, wrenching his wrist away from where Phil is still clenching it. He shifts to get up. “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he says, brushing his pants off and swooping down to pick up the sword. “But you can deal with it if you want.” 

Phil watches him retreat back to the side of the room, scowling, and then takes a breath.

He turns his attention to the intruder-- who is definitely a child. He’s small and scrawny and terrified, staring at Phil with wide, confused eyes. He makes his way over to him, kneeling in front, and watches as the kid manages to press himself even more into the wall.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he says, and his voice is very, very quiet. Phil has to strain to hear it. Behind him, Techno scoffs. Phil ignores it.

“I won’t,” he says. “You’re not in trouble,” Phil assures, watching as the kid in front of him shivers and trembles away from his gaze. For a second he feels terrible, but the urge to protect the portal is stronger than that. “Well. Okay, you  _ are _ in trouble. But this is the type of trouble you can get out of easily as long as you behave, okay?”

Across from him, the kid nods.

Phil shifts, knees and armor creaking. “Good mate. All you have to do to get out of this is show us how you got in here, okay? Retrace your steps.”

“I don’t really remember,” the kid says quietly, but Phil admires his bravery for speaking up in the first place. “It was a big maze. He-- he left me.”

Phil considers this, then reaches out and offers his hand to the kid.

“That’s alright,” he says. “Come on. We’ll walk around a little bit and if you recognize anything, tell me. Okay?” The kid regards his hand with suspicion written clearly across his face, but it flickers after a moment. 

“I dropped my fish,” he says. Phil blinks. “Right after we came inside. If I can find my fish, I can find the tunnel.” Fish? Phil’s confused, but at least the kid is reaching out and placing cold fingers into his palm. Behind him, he can hear Techno scoffing. That’s definitely an issue for later.

“What’s your fish look like?” He asks, helping the kid to his feet.

“It’s not really a fish,” he explains, sort of apologetic. “It’s a rock that looks like a fish. It’s black and white. Sort of stripey.” He frowns. Then holds up the hand that isn’t clasped with Phil’s, fingers a couple inches apart. “He’s this big.”

Phil turns his head over his shoulder, catching one of the soldiers eyes and nodding. Be on the lookout for a fish-esque rock is the message unspoken between them all. He gives the hand in his a gentle squeeze, and then starts down the hallway with the kid walking by his side. Now that he’s up on his feet, Phil can get a better look at him in the dim torchlight underground. He’s got shaggy brown hair, dark eyes, and he’s stick-thin. Phil suspects he knows where the kid came from, but as they make their way down the hallway and turn a corner, he doesn’t mention it at all. They walk in relative silence, the only sound armor clunking as the hallways make everything echo. 

Behind him, Techno tugs gently on his wing and he turns over his shoulder some. The kid is still looking on the ground (presumably to find that rock-fish). Techno narrows his eyes when Phil finds his gaze, but backs down a bit when Phil shakes his head.

They’ll talk later.

He turns his attention back to the kid at his side, whose cold fingers are slowly warming in the palm of his hand. His jacket looks thin, and Phil faintly thinks he could get him a new one.

“This way,” the kid says suddenly, breaking the silence and staring down one of the halls they’d passed. “We came this way.” Phil is startled by how near to the portal room they are. The kid’s grip on his hand increases a bit as he tugs him down the hall and down they go, past torches that cast flickering shadows on the wall.

Something clangs up ahead.

“Isn’t the portal room up there?” Asks one of the guards behind him-- Fitz, he thinks, and Phil immediately breaks into a run. The kid surprisingly keeps up with him and he can hear clanking behind him as everyone else also breaks into a run. Swinging the corner, Phil shoves the kid behind him and rips their hands apart in order to pull his sword from its sheath. Then immediately drops it in favor of darting forward, hands catching the teenager who was inches from toppling into the portal. How he’d managed to get so far was beyond Phil, but he certainly wasn’t about to let him complete a task no one but himself had yet to complete. The kid shouts, but Phil doesn’t give in and instead, throws them both backwards and topples off the stairs.

“What the hell!” The kid shouts, and somewhere behind him, Phil can hear Techno giving orders to the soldiers in a stern tone. Then, the voice of the kid they’d found--

“Schlatt!”

“I told you to stay put, brat!” The kid below Phil wriggles, then realizes he’s probably trapped, and glares up from where his cheek is being pressed into the cold stone. He’s shivering. So is Phil, but he thinks for a very different reason. One instinct is telling him to sink his full weight onto the teen’s back, but a very separate instinct is telling him to lay off. He listens to the latter, lightening up just a bit but keeping a firm grip on his upper arm

“You left me!” A foot stomps, and when Phil glances back the kid looks to be on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe this! You said we were going to do it together, and then you left me!” 

“Yeah, well, look where it got us anyways,” the teen sneers-- Schlatt, if Phil had heard the kid right. “I bet it was ‘cause of your fat ugly crying--”

“ENOUGH!” Phil speaks up finally, but the kid’s face is already crumpling and fresh tears are welling up, he can tell. “Enough! Both of you, enough. I don’t know how you got in, but we’re going to find out. You are both in such deep trouble. I really don’t think you understand the severity of what you’ve done.” Beneath him, the teenager wriggles, whipping his face around and staring at Phil. Phil stares back, a mix of emotions whirling in his gut.

Schlatt grins, and spits up into his face.

\----

They’re all outside now, sitting in the small shack that Pete had built only a few years ago to serve as a midway point to the top of the mountain. Phil’s taking some time to cool off-- inside are the two boys they’d found. They’d met back up with Pete and closed off the portal room again, found where the two boys had snuck in. It was a tiny tunnel in the stone, patches of ice slippery and terrible to go down. Phil didn’t even fit-- Techno had gone through it, wiggling into the snow outside and then coming back to tell them where it led. It was long and dark and had obviously taken time, and Phil was sort of impressed by the sheer dedication these kids had to go through with a plan this stupid.

Of course they’d get caught immediately. 

Footsteps crunch in the snow beside him, and then something warm is pressing up against his side and trying to snuggle into his jacket.

“Hey, Tech,” Phil says quietly, lifting an arm to give him more room. There’s no response as Techno settles himself, digging his hands into his pockets and leaning his head into Phil’s jacket. “You alright? It’s cold.”

It’s quiet for a bit. “He won’t stop crying,” he finally complains, bitter. “I thought this would be more exciting than two annoying nerds.”

“I’m pretty sure the bigger one’s older than you,” Phil points out. Techno’s so young, still. Why did he even agree to bring him along? The sword seems to weigh so heavily on his hip.

Techno scowls. “Still. I thought there’d be a fight. Not a crybaby contest,” he complains, and then tugs out a small knife from his boot. Phil at least pretends to be surprised, reaching out and confiscating it and giving him a look.

“To be fair, I did as well,” he says, tucking the blade away and making a mental note to have Techno give up everything he’d taken from the armory lately. 

“You should lock ‘em up,” Techno says, pouting a bit at the loss of the knife. He seems to understand why, though, and doesn’t comment on it. “In the dungeons, since they liked the stronghold so much.” 

Phil laughs. “You’re so mean,” he says, turning and booping Techno gently on the nose. He goes to tug his hood up, smiling at how the fuzz frames his face and softens his features. “We’ll see.” 

Techno wrinkles his nose. It’s less intimidating when he’s got a baby face surrounded by fur, nose red with the cold. “You never listen to my ideas.”

“One day I will. I promise.”

“Phil?” Pete’s voice breaks the conversation between them, and Phil glances up to find Pete poking his head outside of the shack. They lock gazes, and Pete gives an amused little smile. “Hole’s been plugged,” he says. “Time to go.” 

Phil nods, moving to stand up and bringing Techno with him. Techno, who’s shoved down the hood from his head and is staring at the shack with an annoyed look in his eyes. Phil sighs, braces himself, and heads in.

They make their way down the mountain, a small group of Pete, Phil, Techno, the two boys, and a couple remaining soldiers. Like Techno had said before, the younger boy-- Wilbur, he’d said through a mess of snot and tears-- was seemingly pretty upset. The cold makes the tears stick to his face, dripping down to his nose and catching there like tiny crystals until he wipes them away. The older boy is more stoic, marching down the steep hillside with little fuss other than a stony smile and sharp eyes. The group is a somber one, entering the palace through the back gates and heading into somewhere warm. Phil is glad to strip his jacket and gloves off, stretching his wings to their fullest once they reach the main hall. It earns him a couple of impressed gazes, and one angry one from Schlatt. 

“Phil?” One of the soldiers, a young woman, Kara, Phil thinks, gestures. “Where should we bring them?”

Phil considers it, and the two boys. 

“West wing,” he decides. “There should be empty bedrooms there. Put them in separate rooms, please, and keep a guard outside all night. Let them rest, though, and have some dinner brought in. It’s late. We should all get some sleep, and we can address this in the morning.” 

“Address this in the morning,” echoes Schlatt, giving Wilbur a look. For some reason, Wilbur looks to be on the verge of tears again simply from the phrase. 

Phil’s not quite sure why, but he thinks he’s going to find out come morning. Just a gut feeling.

The boys are shepherded off, but Phil stays where he is in the hall and takes a moment to breathe. He presses his fingers to his forehead, inhales, and exhales. It’s alright, he rationalizes. Just two smart-as-whip kids figuring out how to tunnel, and having the sheer dedication to follow through with an insane plan. What bothers him the most, however, is exactly what he’s trying to convince himself is fine. 

Two kids got into the stronghold. They were only discovered because of the alarms carefully wired around the place. 

If two kids could get in, who else?

Phil stands there for a long while, thinking over plans in his head for more security, when something tugs on his wing.

He knows who it is before even turning around, finding Techno standing there and hardly hesitating to lean down and scoop him up. Techno’s out of his child-sized armor, and is soft in comparison to Phil’s figure. His weight in Phil’s arms is heavy and grounding, resting against his hip and side and shoulder.

“You haven’t changed,” Techno says, wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck. It makes his heart swell with fondness. “It’s almost dinner time.”

“Right,” Phil says, giving Techno a smile. For a moment, he sees him hunched over Wilbur, eyes focused and sword steady. But then he’s just Techno again, with a furrowed brow and eyes wise beyond his years. Phil reaches up, smoothing over his forehead with a thumb. “Let’s have dinner, then.” 

\----

Morning comes with more surprises.

Phil surveys the empty bedroom, the smashed window, and turns to face Kara. 

“He was gone when I checked this morning,” she says, apologetic. “The night guard said he didn’t hear anything. We’ve got people looking, but who knows where he could be by now.” 

“And the other?” Phil shuts the door to the bedroom, glancing across the hall. Kara shrugs, gesturing. 

“He’s still there. Feel free to go say hi.”

Phil regards the door, then makes his way over and raps on it. 

There’s no response, so after a moment, he simply checks the handle and swings it open slightly. 

“Hello?” He calls, peeking in gently before opening the door a bit more. The room is empty, but for a lump on the bed and blankets piled around it. “You awake, kid?”

“Go away,” says a little voice, and ah hah. Phil steps inside, shutting the door behind him and watching as the lump on the bed shifts. 

“Your friend is gone,” Phil says, and the lump stills. “The window’s broken. I’ve got people looking, but he’s been gone a while.”

“He left me?” The lump shifts, and then the kid’s visible, hair sticking up in every direction and eyes rimmed with red. “He really did?” 

Phil doesn’t say anything, but the kid takes it as confirmation and promptly turns red, face scrunching up in a visible effort not to cry. They sit there for a moment, and then, the dam breaks.

“I don’t want to die!” The kid wails, and Phil’s mind goes blank. 

“What?” He asks, taking a couple steps forward. Wilbur shrinks backwards, away from him, rubbing frantically at his face. “Die?”

“I don’t want to die,” he says again, muffled through his hands. “And now Schlatt’s gone and he won’t even take the downfall with me, he said-- he said we were brothers--” 

“Hold on, hold on,” Phil soothes, desperately trying to figure out what to do here. Techno never really… cried. He just pouted or retreated to his bedroom when he was upset, which made a crying child sort of new territory for Phil. All he can really do now is shift gently to sit on the bed, watching as Wilbur curls up and away from him. He looks tiny in the ocean of bedsheets, wiry and thin as a stick. Phil goes the obvious route for comfort here. “You’re not going to die.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to die. We don’t-- I don’t execute people, much less kids.” In fact, Phil is practically horrified by the thought. Children aren’t things to be slaughtered. 

Wilbur’s fingers wring the sheets between them. “But-- Schlatt said when people get caught sneaking into the mountain, they die.” 

“Well,” Phil’s mind flashes back to swords in chests, blood spilling out over the stone, a strong and violent urge to protect the portal rushing through his veins, “some do. But most of those people are adults who have done wrong. Are you an adult?”

“Um. No.” Wilbur shakes his head.

“Have you done wrong?” Phil asks.

“We snuck in,” Wilbur says, fingers twisting more.

Phil smiles, shaking his head. “Other than that.”

After a moment of quiet, Wilbur glances over at Phil, head bowed slightly. “...I stole some apples one time.” Phil can’t help it-- Wilbur looks so incredibly unsure of his reaction that he laughs a little. It clearly startles the kid, eyes going wide and face still uncertain.

“You’re very honest. I hardly think stealing apples is execution-worthy, now, do you?” Phil asks, and his face aches gently from the force of his smile. After a quiet minute, Wilbur smiles back. He giggles, laughter born of anxiety. Phil can’t help but notice now that his eyes are dry-- nothing like before, when he’d been crying near-constantly.

“Probably not,” he admits, giggles trailing off.

“Then it’s settled. No one’s going to die,” Phil tells him, reaching out with one pinky outstretched. It's a habit from Techno, whenever they make small promises to each other. He almost tugs his hand back when he realizes what he’s doing, but before he can Wilbur’s small pinky is linked with him. Phil shakes their hands gently.

“What about Schlatt? What if you find him?” Wilbur asks, fingers still linked. Phil tips his head, glancing toward the windows and the roofs of the city below.

“Well, he’ll be in trouble, but it won’t be a deadly punishment. Do you know where he might’ve gone?”

“....no. What about me?” Wilbur is clearly lying, the fact written all over his face. But the question is a distraction, and Phil takes it for the kid’s own benefit.

“Let’s see. Where are your parents? Missing you by now, right?” Phil could hardly think of his own panic if Techno went missing-- much less, was out committing crimes that usually end in horrible death. Well. Probably. Techno’s quite capable.

“Schlatt and I are from the kid’s home,” Wilbur says nonchalantly.

“Ah. Alright, then.” Phil inhales, then exhales. Wilbur was either an orphan or abandoned kid, then, if he’d come from the kid’s home down in the city. There weren’t too many children there, thankfully, but there were enough that Phil allotted a good amount of resources towards them. His fingers drum over his knee, eyes on Wilbur, who’s looking a bit uncomfortable at the attention. “Would you like to stay for a day or two?” Phil asks after a second, surprising even himself with the question. “Have some breakfast? Meet my son?”

“Is that the one who tried to stab me?”

“His name is Techno. And yes. I’m sure he’s very sorry about trying to stab you.” He will be. Phil’s sure of that. Sort of. “You can come have brunch with us.” 

Wilbur perks up at the mention of food. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Okay!"

Wilbur is different from Techno.

It’s not a bad thing whatsoever. It’s just… different. Techno is ever the independent, while Wilbur tends to cling. Techno is analytical and calm, Wilbur is scattered and emotional. Phil finds he has a hard time adapting to each of them, and it doesn’t help that they hardly get along.

Techno is utterly unconvinced of Wilbur’s place in their new unit. Or, at least, Phil’s attempts to make them a unit. Their first brunch goes disastrously between the two, Wilbur still jumpy from the events of the day before. 

“What’s he doing here?” Techno asks, all sharp edges and acute corners. Wilbur is half-hiding behind Phil as Phil shows him the halls of the palace, watching him take it all in with wide-eyed wonder. 

“He’s staying for the day,” Phil explains, gesturing for Wilbur to take a seat in their dining room. “I wanted to talk to him a little bit.”

“This is a weird type of interrogation,” Techno says, watching with narrow eyes as Wilbur takes a seat. His head perks up at the word, glancing between the two.

“Interrogation?” He asks. He doesn’t sound as worried as Phil would think someone would.

“This isn’t an interrogation, Techno,” Phil says, moving over to his own seat and sighing. He’s got to talk with Techno’s tutor-- it’s good he’s learning, but maybe some things should be saved for later in his schooling. “Where did you even learn what that is?”

“In the library. Why is he here, then? He’s a criminal,” Techno says, and the last word sounds more like a swear than any real bad word he’s ever spoken. 

“He’s a kid, Techno, just like you. And you’ll be nice to him,” Phil insists. Techno just leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. Across the table from him, Wilbur is eyeing him with a strange sort of glint in his eye. Phil watches them, both staring at the other.

“Is he staying? I don’t want him to stay,” Techno says after a moment. Phil, if he had to be honest, would say that the idea had crossed his mind. Wilbur had been scared and small and Phil had fought the urge to keep him like he had Techno. 

Wilbur breaks the staring contest between the two to reach for a piece of dried fruit. “I’d like to stay. This is way better than the kid’s home,” he says, glancing at the array of food on the table. He seems a bit starry-eyed at it all, gaze jumping from plate to plate and happily reaching out to take as much as he can.

“I’m not making any promises. To either of you,” Phil says, pointing from one to the other.

Wilbur pouts. Techno glares. Phil attempts indifference. He fails miserably. Brunch is already cold. 

After a few minutes of tense silence and the sounds of Wilbur eating, Techno pushes himself up from his chair. He hadn’t touched anything. He’d hardly moved, Phil had noted, but he tries not to let it bother him even as the tension cuts through the air like a hot knife through butter. Techno doesn’t say a word as he goes, eyes low the whole way. Phil lets him. The argument doesn’t seem worth it.

Wilbur pauses in his feasting to comment as the door shuts. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“Techno doesn’t like change,” Phil says, glancing back at the carved door and it’s elegant handles. “He’ll come around.”

“Does this mean I’m staying?” Wilbur sounds hopeful, if not a little surprised.

Phil looks back at him, at his wide eyes and innocent look. Something about it doesn’t seem genuine, yet Phil finds himself convinced anyways. “Maybe,” he says. “If you can tell me about how you got into the stronghold like you did.”

“It was Schlatt’s idea. He found a book about it, and said he wanted to see the portal.”

“And you helped?” Phil questions. The answer is clear, but the confirmation is nice. It prompts Wilbur to talk.

“Mhm. We spent…” Wilbur taps his cheek, thinking. “A while on the tunnel. It was cold and scary, but easy to chip the ice away. Schlatt read about it and I found the best spot to tunnel into.”

“You did?” Phil thinks on his own blueprints of the stronghold, the weaknesses they’d found. Everything would have to be patched, now. Everything.

Wilbur is nonchalant in his reply. “Yep.”

Phil inhales, taking a deep breath. “That’s impressive. How old are you?”

“Seven. Or… eight? Not sure,” Wilbur says, and that makes sense. A lot of the kids in the kid’s home aren’t sure of their birthdays, or even their ages at all. 

“Prime.” He’s so young. Phil is struck by how young he is, only two years younger than Techno. So young, and yet so smart already. Wilbur’s shining through as he warms up, and it’s clear there’s more to him than meets the eye. “Why did  _ you _ want to get in there?”

“Schlatt wanted to. He said it would make us famous if we did. Like you.” Wilbur pauses, tapping his cheek again. “I guess he was kind of right. I’m here now.”

“You are,” Phil says weakly, because technically Wilbur’s not wrong. “But that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

Wilbur suddenly looks wary. It’s a look Phil recognizes from the years before being king, the look of a street kid on the verge of running. He holds Wilbur’s gaze, steady and firm, because he’s been there too. “...am I in trouble?” Wilbur asks, and his grip on his fork is suddenly white-knuckled. However, there are no tears like there had been before.

Phil contemplates it. “No,” he says after a moment, and Wilbur relaxes minisculely. “But you need to tell me where you think your friend went.”

“My brother,” Wilbur clarifies, glancing down at his plate. “If I tell you, can I stay?”

Phil doesn’t think he has the heart to send this witty, dynamite kid away if he wanted to. “Yes,” he says, and he means it. Wilbur stares, and Phil stares back. It’s a game they’re playing, apparently, words left unspoken in the stares they share across the table. After a second, Wilbur’s eyes flick to the door that Techno had left through.

“I don’t think he’ll like that,” he comments, and then shifts in his seat and tucks his feet under his butt, on his knees to sit higher. His shoulders relax. “Schlatt’s probably at our hideout. It’s on the east side of town, in an alley by a bakery. A girl named Niki lives in the bakery. I’d look there first.” 

“Thank you,” Phil says as Wilbur picks at his food once more, wrinkling his nose at what looks like a date. He doesn’t miss the constant, wary glances Wilbur gives him, or the way they both know they’re watching the other. Eventually, Phil breaks the silence once again. His appetite has been lost-- gone for a while now, ever since Techno left, but he’s stuck around to keep an eye on Wilbur. Wilbur, who is obviously ambitious and clever and cunning enough to at least try and manipulate the situation he’s found himself in by playing the orphan card. Phil is smart enough to recognize the attempt-- and recognize in some small way it’s working.

“I’d like you to stay,” Phil says, and Wilbur meets his gaze and smiles.

“Really?” He asks, and Phil nods. “Officially?” Phil nods again.

It’s a pragmatic choice. He doesn’t think it’ll be one he regrets.

\----

“Eyes up.” 

Techno swings the sword upwards, blade nearly kissing his nose and eyes crossing as he stares down the center of it. It’s perfectly in line with his body, feet balanced delicately, hands clasped and stabilizing his lower back as he lifts his gaze. Across from him is Wilbur. Wilbur, who’d only three months ago been brought into the palace and declared a prince. Wilbur, whose tongue is too clever for his own good, whose loud presence was absolutely annoying and ruining Techno’s perfect balance of life.

With Phil, things had been predictable. Wilbur was anything but. 

Techno had refused to talk to him for the first two months, hoping that his disinterest would dissuade the other from talking to him. It didn’t work. Wilbur would follow him around like a lost puppy in the street, babbling along about all sorts of things. He’d talk about the trees, about music, about butterflies, about animals he thought were strange, about food, about anything at all. It was infuriating. The first punch Techno had thrown at him had hit Wilbur square on the mouth, and watching him spit out a tooth afterwards had been so  _ satisfying _ . It was almost worth the punishment. But then the week after, Wilbur had been with him again, tailing behind Techno after their lessons and before breakfast and dinner, albeit short one tooth. Nothing Techno could say to Phil seemed to work in persuading him to get rid of this annoyance. In fact, Phil almost seemed to like Wilbur better. 

Which was unthinkable.

Techno had to prove himself superior. Which led them here, to the sparring grounds, where he’d begrudgingly brought Wilbur and listened to him chatter the  _ whole freaking way _ .

He’s still talking, even now. “This is heavy,” Wilbur says, lifting the wooden practice sword and staring at it. Techno sighs. 

“It’s because it’s not meant for you,” he tells him, swinging his arm out and pointing with his own wooden shortsword toward the racks. “Bottom left. Smallest one. It’s one-handed.”

Wilbur at least knows how to follow directions, dumping the broadsword he’d claimed back where he’d found it and digging into the side Techno had pointed to. He comes back only a minute later, wielding a much more appropriately sized training sword. Techno lowers his own to his side and steps forward, showing him how to hold it roughly and kicking his feet into position.

“I’ve never fought with a sword before,” Wilbur tells him, grinning over at Techno with the stupid gap in his teeth. “This is cool.”

“It is,” Techno says coolly, wondering how long it will take for him to knock Wilbur flat on his back in an approved way. “I’m going to beat you now.”

It takes him less than ten seconds. The whoosh of air leaving Wilbur’s lungs as he hits the dirt floor is insanely gratifying. He lies there for a minute, staring up at Techno with buggy eyes that are too big for his face, then scrambles up to his feet and grins.

“Teach me how to do that,” he says excitedly, and Techno just rolls his eyes---

_...two years pass... _

\--and grins, parrying the next attack Wilbur’s tossed out at him.

“You’re doing better,” he calls out over the thwack of wood on wood, easily parrying every move that’s being made against him. Wilbur’s good, but he’s not that good. It’s taken years of training with Techno to even be able to get any hits in at all, much less be able to spar with him like this. 

“No thanks to you,” Wilbur teases, ducking as Techno takes an opportunity to swipe. He pops back up and Techno turns, dropping his sword from one hand into the other and then coming around the other side of Wilbur. Wilbur, who wasn’t expecting to have to block a hit from the left and is now defenseless. They both pant, out of breath slightly, and Techno taps the blade of the sword to Wilbur’s abdomen in a faux-blow.

“I win,” he says, and Wilbur groans. He throws his head back, slumping to the dirt after a moment and tossing his sword toward the rack without even moving over to fix it. Techno sighs, counts to five, and then goes over to do it himself. He’s only eleven, jeez, and he’s so much more mature than Wilbur even now. Speaking of, when he turns back around from fixing the sword rack, Wilbur’s flat on his back and staring up at the glass roof of the atrium, staring out at the blue sky. There’s no hint of clouds. It’s been a sunny summer, the temperatures warmer than usual. They’ve even been able to go outside without heavy jackets lately, which has been fun. Techno hesitates for a minute or two, then goes over and chooses a spot to plop down beside him. He doesn’t lie down-- his shirt would get dirty. And that’s unacceptable, so he sits. Beside him, Wilbur tips his head to look at him, then reaches up and hooks a hand in the hem of his shirt. Also unacceptable. Techno does not make him let go.

“Do you think Phil loves us?” Wilbur asks, and it’s so out of left field that Techno is left stunned for a minute. He blinks, looking back up at the glass ceiling and takes a breath.

“Yeah,” he says, because what else can you say to that? “He says it all the time.”

“But does he mean it?” Wilbur asks. Techno has no idea what to say. Wilbur obviously takes his silence as a cue to forge onwards, fingers twisting in the hem of Techno’s shirt over and over. “Because he says it but sometimes I’ll see him look at me with this weird expression, or sometimes he’ll snap and say something mean and apologize but then I think I might deserve it, and--”

“Phil’s got a hard job,” Techno cuts in, and Wilbur falls silent. He struggles for a second to come up with something else to say, trying and failing multiple times before settling finally. “Running a city is hard. Raising us isn’t exactly the easiest. Together it must suck. But he loves us. Or at least likes us, otherwise he wouldn’t keep us around.”

“Right.” Wilbur doesn’t sound convinced, so Techno sighs and turns, crossing his legs as he faces him. They stare at each other for a second. He has to do the emotions thing, he knows, but it takes him a minute of staring to work himself up to it.

“I don’t know why you’d think Phil doesn’t love us--” Techno begins, “--but that’s stupid. He takes care of us and spends time with us and hugs us. It’s better than wherever you came from before, right?”

“Yeah…” Wilbur nods slowly, untangling his fingers from Techno’s shirt and slowly pushing himself to sit up. He’s shorter than Techno, and Techno notes with pride that his hair is longer than Wilbur’s too. More tallies to add to the list of competitions he’s winning against Wilbur.

“So, there,” he says. “Phil loves us. He wants us to be strong.”

Wilbur seems to mull that over, so Techno lets him and tips his head up again. Of course Phil loves them-- he doesn’t doubt that fact, even if Wilbur might. Phil might be busy a lot, but that comes with running a city. Even then, he knows Phil takes time out of his day purposefully to come see them and check on them in school, or around lunch, or hunt them down in the castle and say hello. He cares about them. Thinking any other way would be stupid, frankly, but Techno can sort of see how Wilbur might be hesitant. He’s still only lived in the castle for less than three years, and while Techno hadn’t been around for much longer before that he’d still grown accustomed to Phil before Wilbur ever even got to meet him. He read a word in the dictionary the other day-- idiosyncrasies. Techno thinks it’s a good word to ascribe to Phil’s habits. He makes a mental note to write it down in his book and quill when he goes back to his room for the night.

“Do you want to go raid the kitchen?” Wilbur’s voice cuts through his inner monologue, and Techno hums to himself before considering the idea. He is a bit peckish. A snack would be fun.

“Sure,” he says, and just like that the conversation is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure how i feel about this chapter. the pov switch at the end was fun tho! hope you guys like it <3


	4. .4.

Things settle, for a while. Once Techno and Wilbur start to get along, it smooths out. Yes, that takes time, but Phil is patient with them both and allows them the freedoms they need in order to get it out. That results in more bruises than he’d like, mostly on Wilbur from Techno (although Wilbur lands more than a few hits of his own) and eventually, things settle. Techno starts to talk again. Wilbur starts to take music lessons, catching up in his schooling and matching pace with Techno. They’re both smart as whips, twice as clever and Wilbur is the most manipulative child Phil has ever had to deal with. He wants things and he gets them, whether it be an extra snack or a new guitar to learn songs on. It takes him a few months, but Phil starts to learn all his tricks and stores them in the back of his head for later. He won’t let Wilbur dominate forever, and eventually, he knows enough about him and his personality to know when Wilbur’s pulling wool over his eyes or purposefully downplaying or upplaying events. 

They fall into a steady family of three, and Phil has a new son. He likes this. He likes being important to them-- the way Wilbur’s eyes shine when Phil tells him stories at night, the way Techno insists on following him around in his free time and learning about running the empire. Phil loves how they adore him, and he adores them as much as he can in return. Neither of them lack anything they want, except perhaps to be exempt from school (but what child wants to be in school?) and Phil more often than not raids Techno’s room to make sure he’s not hoarding an overabundance of weaponry. 

Wilbur calls Phil “dad” one day, just after breakfast, bouncing off to the library like he hadn’t even noticed the word coming out of his mouth. Phil’s thrust into a state of shock, sitting at the table with his mouth open and toast halfway to it.

“You should probably close your mouth,” Techno says after a minute of silence, from the other end of the table where he’s got his head buried in a book. He’s smiling, though. “You’ll catch flies.”

“Oh, shut up,” Phil says lightly. The elation sticks with him all day.

Wilbur’s the one who calls him “dad” really, and even then it’s less than half the time. Techno stubbornly sticks with just calling him Phil, and Phil’s okay with that. He doesn’t matter what they call him, really (even if “dad” makes his heart jump a bit). For a few years, everything is good. Phil raises two headstrong, independent, wonderful boys who aren’t afraid to go out and get what they want.

Which leads them to this moment. 

Phil stares down the three figures in the hall of the palace, two of them bundled up to face the cold and third not-so-much, holding their hands and standing between them.

“Who is this?” He asks, hurrying forward and ignoring how the smallest of the three flinches at the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hall. Wilbur tips his head up, a small determined look on his face. Techno just looks bored.

“I found this,” he says, tugging his hand forward and the boy holding on scowls, turning his attention up to Wilbur and clearly giving his hand a tight squeeze. “And now I want to keep it.”

“My name’s Tommy,” the kid says loudly, still glaring at Wilbur. Phil sucks in a breath through his teeth, glancing between the three.

“Please tell me you didn’t kidnap him,” he says, and Techno shrugs lightly. Of course.

“I’m five,” Tommy says loudly. Wilbur turns to look at him, then bends down and promptly picks him up like Phil has done to him many times over. Tommy wiggles in his arms for a moment, still scowling, but doesn’t fight too hard to get down. Wilbur is still staring at Phil, piercing gaze worming it’s way into his brain and then, as if a switch has flipped inside his brain, starts to pout.

He sighs. “You are the most Machiavellian children I have ever met,” Phil tells him, going over and kneeling beside the group. Tommy wiggles in Wilbur’s grasp again, then opens his mouth and bites his arm. It can’t have hurt-- Wilbur’s wearing a jacket and a shirt under that, and his undershirt, but he still yelps and drops the kid. 

“Gross!” He yells, and Tommy grins as he steadies himself on his feet. He stares at Phil, wide eyes taking in the crown on his head and the silver pin on his shoulder. He makes a face, cheek pulling to the side as he seems to chew and think for a moment. Phil holds a hand out, and Tommy considers it, then reaches out to take it.

“Where are your parents?” Phil asks carefully. Tommy shrugs, which is concerning but not too off. His hand is small in Phil’s own and chilly, fingers pressing into his palm and keeping them focused on each other. He’s picked a few things up, raising Wilbur and Techno. “Do you know where your house is?” He asks instead, hoping maybe he’ll get a real answer instead of just a shrug. He’s not so lucky, so he turns back to a grumpy-looking Wilbur and a pointedly disinterested Techno. 

“Where did you find him?” He asks, glancing between the two. Neither of them say anything. Phil narrows his eyes and glances down at Tommy again, who shrinks under his gaze until he consciously softens it. 

Finally, Techno sighs. “Outside the wall,” he says, glancing down at his fingernails and picking some spot of dirt out from under them. “He was pickpocketing. He tried to steal my dagger.”

“It was shiny and I wanted to play with it,” Tommy starts, taking a deep breath clearly to continue and Phil raises a finger to his lips before he can keep going. Tommy shrinks again, but this time he at least has the nerve to glare at Phil as he does. Phil looks him over, and this time, pays attention. Ragged clothes. Pickpocketing, and he’s skinny. Wilbur was able to pick him up without trouble, so Phil reckons he’s lighter than he should be. 

“Where are your parents?” He asks again, and Tommy stands there for a second, glaring.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and Wilbur huffs. He steps forward again, taking Tommy’s hand and tugging him gently away from Phil and making their way around him. 

“We’re going to go play in my room,” he announces, and Tommy cheers slightly as they head down the hall, clearly pleased as he shoots Phil another suspicious glance and scurries to hide behind Wilbur’s jacket and arms.

Phil says nothing and watches them go, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

“I don’t think he has parents,” Techno pipes up, startling Phil. He’d nearly forgotten he was still there. “He kept talking about a brother on the way in, but in the past tense. He wouldn’t _stop_ talking.”

“Wilbur seems to like him,” Phil points out, tipping his head and crossing his arms. Wilbur had clearly taken a shine to Tommy already, despite dragging him around like some doll. Maybe that was one way to think of it, if not a little crude. Phil’s used to crude things. 

“Wilbur thinks he’s funny,” Techno points out, twirling a piece of hair around his finger. Phil turns to look at him, the way he’s standing. “Like a toy.”

“And you?” He asks.

Techno chews on the question for a minute. “...He’s annoying,” he finally concedes.

“So you like him?” Phil quirks, and Techno’s face goes stormy.

“I never said that!” He exclaims, bringing his arms down from his face and where he’d been playing with his hair. Phil laughs, holding his hands up to soothe and just smiles. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says, watching how Techno just glares up at him. “We’ll put out a search for his parents tomorrow, I think. I don’t want to be known as a kidnapper, even if it is for the best.” Phil’s smile drops slightly and he turns, blowing out a sigh through his lips as he stares down the hallway where Wilbur had dragged Tommy. There’s footsteps behind him, and then Techno’s at his side. A year or so ago, Techno would have probably taken his hand, but now he just stands there, arms folded. 

“And if they don’t show up?” Techno asks, glancing up at Phil. Phil looks back down at him, then shrugs gently. His elytra shift.

“Then… we’ll figure something out,” he says, stretching out a wing and swinging it around Techno, gently bringing him in until Techno’s up against his side and pressed close. It must’ve been windy out-- his nose is red with cold, screwed up in displeasure.

“I don’t want him,” Techno says, and Phil’s reminded of a time when another little boy had been dragged into the palace. He laughs a little, watching as Techno raises a hand to bat his elytra away and take a step forward.

“It’s not up to you, Tech,” Phil teases gently, then gestures. “Don’t you have lessons in a few minutes?”

Techno’s face goes from displeasure to shock to determination in all of five seconds, and he lets out a few choice words before bolting down the hall. Phil’s too busy laughing to scold him for the language.

\----

Phil makes an attempt to find Tommy’s parents or family. He really, really does.

He interviews the kid that night, once he’d been fed and stolen away from Wilbur for a little bit. Wilbur’s attached already, and Phil knows it, so he makes sure to send him off to get ready for bed before sitting Tommy down and holding his hands out.

Through a blindly optimistic smile and chilly fingers, Tommy tells Phil about his family. His older brother, who had disappeared a little while ago. He can’t remember anything else, and Tommy had finally left the house the other day to search. It had been today when he’d seen Techno’s shiny dagger and wanted it, thinking to protect himself.

Phil looks at his face, chubby and small and prideful, and squeezes his fingers.

“What was your brother’s name?” He asks, and Tommy hums, eyes darting around the room as he shifts from foot to foot. Phil knows he’s losing his attention, so he tries to make it quick. “What did he look like?”

“Cornelius,” Tommy finally says, eyes snapping back to Phil’s face and sounding out the syllables of the name quite clearly. It’s clear he’s practiced saying it, probably many times over to himself or to the brother in question. A yawn splits over his face once he’s said it, and Phil gives his tiny fingers a squeeze.

“Thank you, Tommy,” he says gently. “Why don’t you sleep in with Wilbur tonight? I’m sure he’d like that.” 

“Wilbur’s bossy,” Tommy says, not letting go of Phil’s hand as Phil stands up from where he’d been kneeling to talk to Tommy face-on. He yawns again. Phil is not surprised that he’s tired-- it’s been a long, exciting day, and Tommy just ate his fill from a very full table of food. His stomach bulges a bit in the way young children’s do, and Phil thinks to himself to make sure Tommy doesn’t eat too much again in the morning in case he gets sick.

Phil leads Tommy to Wilbur’s bedroom and bids them both a quiet goodnight, Tommy borrowing a set of Wilbur’s old pajamas that are far too big even then. Then he says goodnight to a stoic but exhausted-looking Techno, and then retreats to his own room.

The guard go out the next day in search of a Cornelius. None of them return with anyone named as such and fitting Tommy’s vague description. Phil resigns himself to this fact and continues the search regardless, opening the parameters a little bit-- anyone named Cornelius or anyone looking for a young missing child is encouraged to come see him. He entertains a few guests the second day, and none the third.

Meanwhile, Tommy entrenches himself in their dynamic and then explodes like a firecracker.

He stays in Wilbur’s room the first two nights, but the third day sees an explosive argument come between them like a crevasse. It’s over something silly, Phil knows-- a shared toy, an idea, the both of them clashing and being bossy together leaves little room for error between. Their fight is short and explosive, compared to the long, drawn-out tension that Phil is used to with Wilbur and Techno. Those fights end explosively, while Tommy’s seem to start with flames and end with chill.

“He was being mean!” Tommy wails, tears rolling down his face and hiccups working their way out of his system as he points to where Wilbur is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and an even crosser look on his face.

“And what were you doing?” Phil inquires, turning in his seat to lean down and tug Tommy up, onto his lap. He sniffles, glancing over at Wilbur again, and then squirming slightly in Phil’s lap.

“ _He_ was stealing,” Wilbur cuts in. “My little soldier men. They were all tucked into his pockets and he refused to give them back!” 

“I like the soldiers,” Tommy says, sounding awfully pitiful and when Phil looks at him, his face is red and blotchy with tears. “I wanted to have one.”

“You had eight!” Wilbur points out.

“Well you have a million!!!” Tommy’s face scrunches up again and Phil sends Wilbur an exasperated look, turning back to Tommy after a second and gently taking one of his wrists in hand, tugging it down and away from where he’s rubbing his eyes.

“Tommy,” Phil says, being as gentle as he can be. “Those were Wilbur’s toys, alright? You can’t just take them because you wanted them. If you’d like, we can get you some toys of your own. Would you like that?”

Tommy’s tears immediately come to a halt as he takes that in, staring up at Phil with wide, trembling eyes full of unshed tears. “Really?” He asks. “For me?”

“Sure,” Phil says. He hasn’t the heart to tell Tommy he doesn’t think his brother is around anymore, so instead, he’ll try to ease the transition the best he can. And as he sits here with his arms around Tommy and Tommy’s hand in his, he’s starting to realize maybe Tommy is never going to leave. And Phil finds himself… okay with that. In fact, it makes him just want to hold onto Tommy a little tighter and not let go. Wilbur and Techno had come to him with some level of maturity already, and Phil loves them for it. But Tommy’s young still, and while boisterous and mischievous he’s yet to grow up just yet.

Phil finds he _likes_ being the person Tommy goes to when he’s upset during an argument. He enjoys settling the argument less, but the trust….

Well. It does funny things to his heart.

“Does this mean you’re keeping him?” Wilbur asks, because Wilbur is perceptive and from the looks of it, still annoyed by Tommy’s attempt to steal from him. Phil glances over, then back at Tommy, who’s squirming to get down and out of his lap already. Phil lets him go.

“Tommy, apologize to Wilbur for taking his things,” Phil instructs.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, bumping into Wilbur and then bouncing back from it with ease. “I’m getting my own now!”

Wilbur wholeheartedly ignores the apology. “Are we _keeping_ him?” He asks again, sounding scandalized. “Did you even look for his brother? He’s annoying! I don’t want him!”

“That’s not what you said when you brought him in here the other day,” Phil says cooly, watching as Wilbur’s face goes a bit red. “It was your idea, really.”

“I miss my brother,” Tommy interjects, and Phil realizes they’ve sort of been talking about him without acknowledging the fact he’s right here. And despite being only five, despite not being mature just yet, Tommy still knows how things work. And once again his tears are back, slowly streaking down his cheeks. “I want him.”

“Oh, buddy,” Phil says, slipping off his chair and landing on his knees. Tommy’s at his side instantly, staring at him with his bottom lip trembling. “I’ve been looking. I promise.”

“You promise?” Wilbur cuts in again, staring at Phil. Phil stares back for a moment, then holds his pinky out to Tommy with gentle care. Tommy immediately links pinkies with him.

“I do,” he says. “I promise I’ve been looking. But, if I’m not able to find him, I’d like you to stay, Tommy. Is that alright with you?”

Tommy stares at him for a minute, still slightly crying. There’s snot dripping from his nose, and Phil forces himself to keep a straight face as he raises his hand and uses a handkerchief to slowly wipe it away. Gross. 

“Yes,” Tommy whispers a second later, muffled by the fabric in Phil’s hand. “‘S alright.”

“Good,” Phil says gently, tossing the handkerchief to the side. “It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Tommy shakes his hand gently, a grin slowly spreading over his face. Phil smiles back, then moves to get up.

“I have work,” he says to the both of them, because he does. “You’re both dismissed. Wilbur, split your toys fifty-fifty with Tommy for now.”

“Seriously?” Wilbur huffs through his nose, then pushes off the doorframe and turns on his heel. “This is going to be the worst.” Despite his words, Phil doesn’t miss how Wilbur hesitates just long enough for Tommy to catch up, for Tommy to slip his hand into Wilbur’s. He doesn’t miss how Wilbur rolls his eyes as Tommy starts to prattle on about staying in the palace, nor does he miss how Wilbur doesn’t interrupt. 

\----

Wilbur is half-asleep that night when someone crawls into his space in bed. At first, he thinks it’s Tommy, so he does not hesitate to shove his hand in their face and push.

“Ow,” says the person, and that is decidedly not Tommy, so Wilbur sheepishly opens his eyes and pulls his hand away from Techno’s face.

“Sorry,” he says, because it’s late and he’s too tired to argue. Techno seems to be in the same boat. Eleven and nine, and suffering from exhaustion and fatigue borne of a little brother only three days in.

“Phil likes him,” Wilbur says, because he already knows what Techno’s thinking without him saying anything. Techno settles under the covers, their feet coming together and legs tangling a little bit. 

“He’s annoying,” Techno complains.

“You need to come up with better insults,” Wilbur shoots back. “For as much time as you spend with your nose in a book, you’ve got a shit vocabulary.”

“And your vocabulary is like gutter trash,” Techno fires at him. “Where did you learn that word?”

“The guardsmen don’t pay enough attention,” Wilbur says. “I think I’m going to teach it to Tommy. That’ll show Phil. Wanting another one of us. Aren’t we enough?”

“He’ll just figure out where Tommy learned it from,” Techno points out, shuffling slightly in the dark. Techno’s always run a few degrees warmer than Wilbur, and Wilbur doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of that on cold arctic nights, snuggling close. “And then you’ll be in trouble too.”

“Worth it,” Wilbur says primly. His voice is muffled by sheets and comforters. “Do you think if we take him outside one day and leave him he’d stay away? Or get lost again?”

Techno considers that for a moment, breath puffing softly. “No,” he says. “Tommy’s good with directions. He remembered where my room was and came to bother me today.”

“I hate him,” Wilbur proclaims. They’re both silent for a minute. It’s long enough for Wilbur to yawn, jaw cracking slightly as he does. They both giggle at the sound of it, then quiet again.

“Me too,” Techno says. Wilbur nods to himself. It’s decided. They hate Tommy.

Later that night, Tommy will sneak into Wilbur’s bed. Wilbur doesn’t blame him. The beds are very cold and very large and suffocating when you’re on your own. Techno is still there when Tommy arrives, mostly asleep as he shuffles and all three of them arrange themselves into a toasty pile. Wilbur tells Tommy he hates him with all the eloquence of a talking fish-- his words end up sounding muffled and underwater. Tommy just sniffs and sticks his head into Wilbur’s neck and shuts his eyes quietly, back to sleep in a second.

Wilbur hates him. So does Techno. Any arguments to the contrary are invalid.

\----

Tommy is kidnapped two months and three weeks after his permanent inclusion into Phil’s eccentric family.

Well. There’s an attempt. It’s a poor attempt, really, since the perpetrator never makes it out of the palace grounds with him. 

Phil’s woken at nearly two in the morning by guards and a rush of people and a flurry of things and news and talk. Someone had heard muffled screaming in the hall earlier, but it had been quickly shushed. Nothing was noted too out of the ordinary until a guard spotted someone near the walls, the unsettlingly quiet little body of a treasured prince hanging over his shoulder. 

The merc is kept alive just long enough to say who had paid him.

Phil is exhausted. Tommy is still asleep-- he’d been checked over the second they had gotten him back from the mercenary, but thankfully he’d only been given a dollop of weakness. Just enough to get his tiny body to drift off into slumber, but the clerics said he probably wouldn’t wake up for a good twelve hours or so. Weakness potions were dangerous even to fully-grown men-- Phil could hardly think of what a full dose would do to a kid, much less one as scrawny as Tommy. The panic he'd felt in his chest had been suffocating until he'd laid eyes on him again, Tommy's eyes closed and chest moving up and down gently. Phil doesn't think he's ever felt a relief so strong before-- not even after he'd killed the dragon. He’d held him close for the first few minutes, sitting on the side of the bed and just cradling Tommy in his arms as Pete and Fit read out the report and what they’d gathered from the mercenary. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Phil had eventually set Tommy down and tucked him into bed, three guards at the door and a sleepy Wilbur joining Tommy in his bed. Phil had told the clerics to inform him the moment anything happened in regards to either of them, and had made his way with Fit and Pete to one of the meeting rooms.

It’s a messy kind of meeting. It’s the kind of meeting that has all of them in their pajamas, Phil without even shoes or socks, quartz cool against his feet. It’s the kind of meeting that has papers spread haphazardly across the table instead of in their neat usual spots, that has Pete falling asleep halfway through with his head in his arms and Fit staring Phil in the eyes, tired and dragged down by the thought of it all.

Techno shows up before the sun rises.

He’s also in his pajamas, the door creaking slightly as he enters. Phil spares him a glance at first before looking back at the messy plans spread in front of him, then carefully coalesces it into a big pile. Techno is at his elbow in less than five seconds, so that’s probably for the best.

“What’s going on?” He asks, voice groggy with sleep but observant all the same. “Everyone’s awake.” 

Phil looks over, reaching out to ruffle Techno’s hair gently. It’s messy, tangled. He didn’t even bother to comb through it. “Nothing,” he says, and catches Techno’s look. “Okay, okay.”

“I’m not dumb,” Techno says, and then he’s tipping his head to peer at the papers. “What happened?”

“Someone snuck into the palace,” Phil says, watching as Techno’s sharp eyes take in the scribbled plans on the papers. 

“Why were there guards outside Tommy’s room?” Techno asks, and Phil sighs. He reaches out, spreading the papers carefully in a fan-shape. Techno hangs onto the edge of the table, fingers tracing the plans of the castle on one of them.

“You’re smart,” Phil says. “Figure it out.”

Techno’s eyes narrow as he thinks, then get wide. His head whips to look at Phil. “Is he okay?” He asks, because for all his stoic persona and insistence on shoving Tommy and Wilbur away, some little part of him cares. Some part of him cares deeply. 

“He’s alright,” Phil reassures, reaching out to plop a hand on top of Techno’s head. “Just tired. I put Wilbur in with him and there are clerics and guards in there watching.” 

“Good.” Techno seems to approve, looking back at the table and staring, but he doesn’t seem focused. “Who was it?”

“A mercenary.”

“Like Fit?”

“Well. Different. Fit isn’t a mercenary anymore.”

Fit pipes up, grinning. “I’m honored to be remembered as such.”

“Oh, shut up.” They share a brief, exhausted laugh. Techno glances between them, then back at the paper.

“What do you know about mercenaries, kid?” Fit asks. Techno looks up, meeting his gaze, and does not flinch away. Phil is impressed, and he knows Fit is as well.

“They’re people are hired to perform violent acts of service,” Techno says, voice all fact. Phil is still slightly amused. 

“Right,” Fit says, and he’s clearly prodding. “So what do we know about the people who wanted to take your little brother?”

“He’s not my brother,” Techno says, stubborn. But he’s clearly thinking about it, and a moment later, speaks. “If a mercenary took him, then someone else hired them. So we want to know who hired them. ...Do we know?”

“We do.” Fit leans back in his chair, smiling. Phil is content to watch this play out-- Techno is studying Fit again, eyes slightly narrowed. “The mercenary said he was hired by the Hermits.”

Phil cuts in. “But,” he says, holding up a finger. “I spoke with Grian last week. The Hermits and the Antarctic Empire are on good terms. Amazing terms, even. So why would they hire a mercenary to kidnap one of my sons?”

Techno’s mouth skews to the side, cogs working in his head. “They wouldn’t,” he reasons. “The mercenary was lying. Or the people who paid him weren’t who they said they were.” Fit whistles, and Phil snorts a laugh. Techno just looks mildly confused, glancing between the two.

“Impressive kid,” Fit says, before standing up and shoving his chair back. “I’ll see you in three hours, Phil. I’m going to catch a cat nap.”

“Sleep well,” Phil says, and then the door shuts as he goes. Phil doesn’t blame Fit-- he’s also exhausted, and a nap before the council meeting would be wonderful. But now he’s got to deal with Techno on his own, and his paranoia is spiking. Most likely, Phil will bring his work to Tommy’s room and hang in there until the meeting. Techno is by his side, and after a minute or two of quiet silence, speaks again.

“If someone hired a mercenary pretending to be Hermits, that must mean they’re someone who doesn’t like the Hermits,” Techno reasons. His voice is clear and the big words sound so strange coming from his mouth, but he’s obviously been thinking about it. “Who doesn’t like them?”

Phil shuffles a paper, then gently shoves them all onto the floor and ignores the ruffle as they fall. Etched into the table is a map-- huge, of their world they live in. Phil presses a finger into the AE, elegantly etched into the wood.

“This is us,” he says, and Techno peers carefully. Phil traces his finger upwards. “Here is the Hermit’s territory. Beyond that, the Vault Hunters. They’re good friends with the Hermits, since their founder was once one of them.”

“Iskall,” Techno says, cutting in. Phil nods. He drags his finger down again.

“Over here are the industrialists. OTV is on relatively good terms, but the Tekkit.” Phil inhales, shrugging. “It’s been rocky lately.” 

“And here?” Techno asks, pointing to a part of the map. Phil nods.

“The ruins of Achievement City, and 2B2T lands. A lot of the mercenaries come from that way.”

“What about the rest of it?” Techno asks, motioning the wide swaths of unmarked table and, in turn, land.

“Open territory. Most of these named places are just cities and the surrounding land, Tech,” Phil explains. A lot of villages were in those wide open areas, but until someone came and started something, they were mostly secular. 

“Can I see?” Techno asks, and Phil knows he’s referring to the big cities without having to ask for clarification. Not just that-- he’s asking to see the world entirely. Phil looks over, meeting Techno’s determined gaze. It’s not one he’s unfamiliar with. In fact, it’s the one he’s the most well-acquainted with. He considers it. He really does-- Techno is smart, and grasping these concepts the second they’re explained.

“Maybe,” Phil says. Techno narrows his eyes. “Next time I go visit you can come with. Which may be soon, considering what I want to discuss with Grian sooner than later.”

Techno is looking at the table map again, hair draping over his shoulder and messy. Quietly, he reaches out to point gently.

“It’s probably someone from the Tekkits,” he says, tipping his head carefully. Phil watches, and listens. “Or someone independent. Whoever it is is-- they’re gonna pay.”

On that carefully malevolent note, Techno turns on his heel and heads out of the room, presumably to check on his brothers or go get dressed. Phil will find out in a few moments, since he’ll get up and head down the hall to get dressed and then sit in Tommy’s room until the meeting with his council. But for now, he just sits, leaning back in his chair and watching the door close.

 _Techno is something_ , he thinks. _Something important._ Phil looks back to the table and paper scattered around him on the floor, and thinks that maybe he’d found a valuable asset when he’d saved that little nether kid years ago. 

  
  


Meetings are called. People arrive. Phil stands at the head of a table and reminds everyone there of his power, elytra spread wide behind his back.

Techno stands at his elbow, dark eyes darting between everyone in the room.

 _They will not be messed with again_ , says Phil. It’s a mercy Tommy woke up twelve hours later with enough energy to light the sun, and wasn’t injured.

Techno cuts in, his young voice so impressively large during such an important meeting. Heads turn his way. Later, they will turn to many ears and whisper stories about a tiny prince with long hair, eyes made of steel, and words like knives.

 _Touch any of us again_ , he says. _And we will not be so nice._

\----

Not all meetings are so important.

Wilbur shuffles slightly to the left, taking a step.

Behind him, he can hear the fabric rustle as someone follows.

His eyes narrow, but he keeps them focused on the action in front of them. Phil’s busy and Techno’s up there with him, talking with some of the local villagers about trade deals and something something, blah blah, it’s all pretty boring. He hasn’t particularly been paying attention for the past twenty minutes. Despite being up with Phil, Techno has clearly also clocked out, eyes drifting over the map on the table without taking anything in. He’s got on his neutral face of displeasure, lost in his own thoughts clearly by the way he doesn’t even catch Wilbur’s movement to the side. 

Speaking of, he shifts again. Behind him, more fabric rustles, and a tiny giggle.

Wilbur risks a glance at Phil before whipping his head around, glaring.

“Tommy,” he scolds, keeping his voice hushed but as stern as he can get it. “Stop moving.” Then, he snaps his head back to the front, looking over the group of people again. No one seemed to have noticed him, so that’s good. He clasps his hands together behind his back more firmly, straightening his spine a little.

“My feet hurt,” Tommy complains a second later, obviously trying to whisper and failing. The sound echoes, much too loud for Wilbur’s liking, and he whips around again before he can see if anyone’s looking at them.

“Shh!” He tells him, raising a finger to his mouth and glaring. Tommy shrinks under his gaze for a half-second, then pops right back up. “You need to be quiet,” Wilbur tells him, watching as Tommy’s brows get closer and closer together.

“My. Feet. Hurt,” he repeats, and Wilbur can feel eyes on his back. Everyone’s looking, aren’t they? He has to deal with this and quickly, before Tommy throws a tantrum. How Phil lets him still get away with that is beyond Wilbur-- he’d never been allowed to throw as many fits as Tommy does when he was seven. And now that he’s older, he’s apparently got to be more mature, whatever that means. Usually it’s just Phil sending Wilbur off to watch Tommy, or Techno complaining about the both of them.

It’s kind of tiring.

“I’m going to take my shoes off,” Tommy says decisively, and Wilbur snaps back into real life and away from his anxieties. He stares as Tommy starts to move, crouching down and tugging at the strings on his boots.

“Why are you doing that?” Wilbur whispers furiously, staring down at him and then looking back over his shoulder for a glance. “Tommy, stop!”

“But my feet hurt! I want them off! I like my socks better!” He looks up at Wilbur, eyes big and bright and blue and perfect. His hair is just a tad out of place-- Wilbur was kind of surprised it was only just now rising out of the style it’d been prepped in this morning. Below his face, Wilbur can tell he’s still undoing his laces.

“Don’t-- just-- ugh, Tommy!” Wilbur knows he’s getting loud, but he’s also getting more and more annoyed. He reaches down, trying to tug Tommy back up to stand with him and stay quiet for the rest of this stupid meeting. “Will you just quit it and be quiet! For once!”

“I don’t want to be quiet! I want to be loud! La la la--” Wilbur winces, shoving his hand over Tommy’s mouth and wincing when his fingers are promptly bitten.

“Ow! Shhhh!!! This is important! You’re being annoying!” 

Freed from Wilbur’s hand, Tommy doesn’t hold back. “Says you. Phil says I have character, whatever that means. Better than whatever you have, I reckon!” 

“I am going to murder you, I will _murder you dead_ \--”

There’s a tap on his shoulder.

Wilbur feels his stomach drop as he realizes the room is quiet now except for him and Tommy and their argument, whispers incredibly loud against the backdrop of silence.

Dreading the scene, he turns around.

Behind him, Techno stands, arms crossed and eyeing Wilbur a bit scornfully. He can already feel himself shrinking under the gaze, but he’s not going to let Techno intimidate him. Techno, who reads stupid books and pretends to know more than he does to seem cool. So he stands tall and crosses his arms right back. Techno clears his throat.

“Phil says you two are free to go,” he tells Wilbur, and from behind him Tommy cheers quietly. Techno looks annoyed-- and maybe a little jealous? Wilbur stares at him for a minute, inspecting his eyes and gaze, and yeah, Techno’s jealous! He breaks out into a grin before he can stop himself, delighting in how Techno seems to get even more annoyed. Tommy’s tugging on his shirt from behind and Wilbur reaches around, slapping his hand away before turning and heading toward the door. It’s all of two seconds before he’s preoccupied with Tommy again, who seems intent on tugging his jacket right off. Annoying brat. Behind them, Techno turns back to the silent group of amused villagers and one exasperated king.

\----

Phil wishes it was ethical to leash children.

It would certainly be easier than the way he’s going about it now, after all. The hood of Tommy’s winter jacket is effective if not cruel-- he doesn’t want to choke the poor kid. Techno had been watching the chaos unfold before him with mild disinterest for the most part, up until he’s just _disappeared_. And Wilbur was no help at all either. In fact, he just seemed to enjoy egging Tommy on, pointing out shiny things in the marketplace for him to try and grab or whispering plans to run off in his ear.

Phil is exhausted and about to buy the next three leads he sees to attach to these boys. Once he finds Techno, that is.

“I SEE HIM!!!” Tommy is shrieking, but at least it brings good news. Everyone in a five foot radius of them winces, including Wilbur and Phil, and then Tommy’s ducking and slipping _out of his jacket_ to run off into the crowd.

Phil’s left holding an empty piece of fluffy fabric as Wilbur bolts off after him. He looks like a fool. Even more so when he tucks the jacket under his arm and gives chase. Citizens give him amused looks as he runs after them, wings buzzing against his back as he hops from foot to foot and uses them as advantages to boost himself closer. He scoops up Tommy first, one arm around his tiny waist and holding him firm. Wilbur next, although it’s easier to snag his arm and just keep him put when he’s got Tommy already. Tommy is warm and wriggly under his arm, but he doesn’t let go for anything as they all skid to a stop and Phil takes a moment to catch his breath.

“Will you quit it?” he asks, and Tommy grins at him, shark teeth bared wide. 

“I found him,” he says, lifting a hand from where he’d been trying to wiggle out of his grasp and point. Phil glances up, and sure enough, there’s Techno. He’s standing in the back of a group of children on the side of the street, seemingly entranced by the little side show that’s going on. It’s a puppeteer, by the looks of it, painted-grey boxes stark against the wood of the house behind, little figurines dancing across the stage and manipulated by hands from below. Tommy in fact, seems to be placated some when he notices it. Techno appears to also be watching some, and Wilbur’s even stopped tugging at Phil’s sleeve.

If it’s a distraction, he’ll take it. 

He takes a couple steps over toward the puppet show, ending up at Techno’s side. Tommy’s immediately grabbing onto him, hands fisting into Techno’s jacket sleeve, and Phil sets him down once more. He doesn’t bother to try and wrestle his jacket back on, instead folding it over his arm and peering toward the show with mild interest. 

“It’s you,” Wilbur says, pointing with one hand.

It is surely him, a little puppet made of straw and fabric and yarn. It’s clearly got a crown on its head, and small tiny armor pieces, and a tiny sword. Flying high on the stage is a dragon-- similar to the one he’d fought not-too-many years ago. They dance around a little bit, Puppet-Phil’s sword clinking slightly as the master behind the dolls manipulates the stage and sings.

“It was probably more exciting in person,” Techno says, and Phil gently nudges his shoulder. Tommy is still clinging on to his sleeve desperately, eyes trained on the stage and mouth open a bit. 

“It very much was,” Phil says quietly, amused. It’s sort of funny to see himself presented like this, and he’s even more amused by how the three boys at his feet are entranced by it. He’s not sure if it’s a kid thing or a him thing, but either way, the small respite from chasing them is nice. The song and fight comes to an end, Puppet-Phil’s sword stabbing the dragon in the chest and out of it comes magic. Streamers, in reality, but around them, children cheer. Wilbur and Tommy included. Techno just rolls his eyes. The music comes to an end, and Tommy jumps up and down as the puppets all come out on stage to take a bow. 

“That was so cool!” He says, turning to look at Phil even with his hands still tightly holding on to Techno’s sleeve. “You killed the dragon!! You did it!”

“I did,” Phil says, amused, and Techno is still staring at the puppets and the other kids around them, an unreadable expression on his face. “It was very scary, actually.”

“Whaaaat??” Tommy’s mouth opens and he looks like a fish, gasping for air. “Did you almost die?”

“More than once,” Wilbur cuts in. He’s heard this story before. “The dragon’s wings are razor-sharp. One time the dragon swooped down and…. WHOOSH! She almost cut Phil’s _head_ off. But he ducked in time to escape, and then shot her with his bow.”

That’s… not exactly true, but Tommy’s staring between Wilbur and Phil with wide, impressed eyes, and Phil can’t bring himself to ruin the narrative. So he nods instead.

“Yup,” he says. “It’s true. I ran out of arrows though, so I had to wait until she got too tired of flying.”

“And then you slit her throat,” Techno jumps in, voice flat. Phil lifts his hand to his face, hiding his smile behind his fingers as Wilbur whaps Techno on the shoulder. Tommy’s eyes are as wide as saucers, constantly flicking his gaze between the three. 

“Wow,” he finally says in a small voice. “I have the coolest dad.”

Phil’s heart melts a little, and before he can stop himself he swoops down to pick Tommy up and spin him in a circle, ignoring the terrified yet gleeful shrieks of the kid in his arms. 

“I may have killed a dragon,” he says once he’s stopped spinning Tommy in circles, now just holding him on his hip and tugging Wilbur and Techno close with his elytra. “But it was nothing compared to you three. You are the fiercest, bravest, most wonderful creatures I have ever known, and I cannot wait to see what you do someday.” 

“Cringe,” Techno says, and Phil just nudges him closer with his elytra and slings an arm around his shoulders. Tommy’s got his hands wrapped around Phil’s neck, hot breath on his cheek, and Wilbur’s smiling a little as he stands there against Phil’s side. Despite being in the middle of the marketplace, Phil’s wings gives them a quiet space to themselves for the moment. 

“I love you,” Phil insists.

“Cringe,” Tommy says, echoing Techno’s sentiment from earlier. From the expectant look on his face, he either has no idea what it means or knows exactly what it means. Either way, he’s expecting them to be amused. And it works, of course.

“Copycat,” Techno mumbles, and Wilbur devolves into breathless laughter, pressing his face into Phil’s jacket and side. Phil can only smile, tucking them all a little closer. 

\----

Tommy’s feet pad against the cold quartz, toes curling slightly as he passes the windows. Moonlight shines through-- it’s a clear winter night, no snow in sight and freezing temperatures. The freezing temperatures aren't new, and Tommy’s used to the cold when he pauses in his midnight walk to press his hand against the glass and squint to peer outside. The city is mostly dark, with only the streetlights illuminating the streets as he looks. The glass fogs up under his nose and around his hand, and he has to hold in a laugh as he draws, pressing his finger to the foggy spots and drawing something that is definitely not anatomically correct.

“Tommy?” Someone calls his name, and he flinches. Whipping around, he finds Techno standing there, a lantern in hand, squinting at him through his night glasses. They’re the ugly pair. He looks confused. “Why are you out of bed?”

“Uh.” Tommy glances behind him, then back at Techno. He doesn’t seem mad, just… quiet. Confused. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

“It’s late,” Techno points out. Tommy wrinkles his nose as his older brother comes closer, the light from the lantern warming his face some.

“You’re up too,” Tommy says, and Techno just rolls his eyes. Rude.

“I’m older than you,” he points out, turning to glance at the window. He rubs away Tommy’s drawing with one fist. “So I’m allowed.”

“Could you not sleep too?” Tommy asks impulsively. Techno goes still, then his hand drops away from the glass very slowly.

“....no,” Techno says. "I couldn't."

“Oh.” Tommy is quiet for a second, and then inhales sharply. Techno’s face is hidden by shadow, and in this light he looks less like the impenetrable older brother he knows and more sad. He exhales. “Don’t tell Wilbur,” he starts. “but it was a bad dream. It was really scary.” 

Techno is silent for a moment. 

“Ah,” he finally says. Tommy turns to look at him again, staring hard. Techno’s staring right back, and it unnerves him just the slightest bit. They stand there for a second, and then Techno breaks into a grin. All teeth. “Don’t tell Wilbur,” he says, “but I have bad dreams too.”

“Is that why you’re up?” Tommy feels his eyes widen in slight surprise. Techno, having bad dreams? Techno’s not supposed to get scared. 

“Yeah,” he says, and then turns to glance out the window again. “I’m up most nights.”

“...does Dad know?”

“Yeah, he does.” Techno sighs lightly, and it’s then that Tommy realizes the smudges under Techno’s eyes might not be an effect of the lighting. He rubs at his own, staring at his fists once he’s done.

“Is that why you’re allowed to sleep in?” He asks. 

Techno snorts. “Sometimes.” 

Tommy huffs, crossing his arms and glaring. “That is so not fair,” he says, and Techno just shrugs. They stand there quietly for another few moments, and then Techno puts a hand on his shoulder and quietly starts to steer him away. 

“Time to go back to bed,” he deadpans, and Tommy scowls, but doesn’t try to break away.

“What if I have more?” He asks. “Bad dreams? Can I stay awake then?” 

Techno seems to consider it, placing the lantern down on a table in the hallway, and then using his now-free hand to push open the door to Tommy’s room. He breaks away here, ducking away from Techno’s warm hand and instead going to bounce onto his bed. He has to jump over a few things to get there, but it’s fine. Someone will clean his room tomorrow. Techno picks his way over the mess more carefully, and goes to stoke the fireplace a bit before following him. 

“Maybe,” he says, delicately sitting on the bed beside Tommy. His weight dips the blankets, and Tommy goes to shove his feet under the covers to warm them. “If you have another bad dream, then alright. You can stay up.” Tommy mulls this over for a moment, then nods. It seems fair, and his eyes are getting kind of heavy again.

“Okay,” he says, shoving his legs under the blankets now too. Techno’s smiling. They both pretend he’s not. Tommy sits there for a minute, and then Techno heaves a sigh, shifting to get up again. It’s darker in Tommy’s room than it was in the hall, and he glances around at the corners and dark shadows.

“Goodnight--” 

“Wait!” He cuts Techno off, and his brother goes still entirely before turning around to face him again. 

“Yes?” He asks, when Tommy says nothing. He twists his fingers in the sheets for a second.

“Maybe if you stayed you wouldn’t have nightmares,” he blurts after a second. “Or. Something. I don’t know. Maybe our nightmares could cancel each other out. Like magic. If you wanted to stay?”

“Do you want me to stay, Tommy?”

“No! I mean-- only if you… want to?” It squeezes out of his mouth uncomfortably, the sentiment sitting heavy on his tongue as he squints and contorts his face alongside the words. Techno stands there for a second, face lost in shadow again, and then he laughs quietly. Tommy scowls immediately, sinking deeper into his bed.

“I’ll stay,” Techno says, much to his relief. “Scoot your big butt over.”

“You’re the one with a big butt,” Tommy shoots back. Banter comes easier than being nice, he thinks. “And a big head. I can’t believe you can fit through doors with the both of them being so freaking huge.”

Techno scoots in beside Tommy, snickering softly but offering no rebuttal. He says nothing as they settle down, Tommy tugging the blankets up and over them. Techno’s like a heater, and before long they’re both warm and cozy. His eyes are drooping. There’s a heavy weight over his shoulders, and Techno smells like ink and soil and iron. 

“Night, Tommy,” he says softly. Tommy does not hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had some parts of this chapter i really liked, and some i hated, but that's okay! let me know what your favorite part of this chapter was in the comments :) and leave a kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> this chapter also got more messy with POV switches, but i hope they weren't too hard to follow! there are going to be WAYYY more pov switches now that all of the SBI boys have been introduced, so we can get a good look at everyone's pov and dynamics :) hope you're enjoying!!!!!
> 
> OH ALSO SIDE NOTE: tbh i just used cornelius as tommy's brother bc i had no idea who else to put for him. if you want to think it's dream, maybe! but i don't think that this cornelius is dream myself :) it's just some random guy who left his brother alone bc he couldn't pay to feed him anymore basically lmao


	5. .5.

Routines are something Phil has grown used to.

Their days start and end with a certain cadence to them that only comes with the soft sunny tones of daybreak and twilight, as the sun caresses the horizon and kisses the earth gently. It’s the type of cadence that almost demands a routine within it, for how comforting it feels. A morning and a night, the beginning of a day and the end of one. It’s in these times where the world feels less steady on its feet, and so to make up for it, in comes routine.

It starts one night, when Techno’s refusing to go to bed. This in itself isn’t out of the norm-- oftentimes, Phil would be wandering the halls to his own bedroom and find him awake, reading by the dim light of a lantern and telling him off gently. This night is different. This time, Techno is clearly refusing.

“I don’t want to,” he says, jutting his chin out. Phil sighs, glancing toward the door and then back again. He’s not quite sure what to do, here. 

“Will you try?” He asks, and Techno scowls at him lightly before giving in. He’s clearly tired. He’s just pushing boundaries, Phil thinks. He has no idea what he’s doing-- this is a thought that has come over him more than once while figuring out how to get Techno under his wing, and yet, here they are. Techno’s still alive, and doing pretty well considering he was a lost nether kid almost a year ago now. 

“Fine,” he mumbles, flopping into the pillows. Phil sighs lightly, reaching out and placing his hand on his warm little back. He can already see his eyes shutting, eyelids squished tight enough together that his whole face wrinkles.

“Have I ever told you,” Phil starts, “about the time I almost fell off a cliff? In the middle of the desert?” Silence, then a soft  _ no _ . Phil hums, and rubs his thumb gently over the fabric of Techno’s pajamas. “Well,” he says. “It’s pretty funny. I was walking along on a normal path, or so I thought. Eventually it turned out I’d walked right up the side of a mountain.” Phil keeps telling the story, mind flashing back to the heat of that desert and the panicked feeling in his stomach as the sand crumbled under his feet. But he makes sure to keep his voice low, and to keep his thumb moving over the ridge of Techno’s spine as he lies there.

By the time the story’s complete, Techno is clearly dead to the world. Phil takes a moment to tuck him in gently, pulling the blankets to his shoulders, and smoothes the remaining wrinkles from his forehead with one hand.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” he whispers to the dark room as he leaves, and gets no response.

This becomes routine.

Techno can’t seem to fall asleep without it anymore, and Phil is more than happy to oblige. Even if it means he has to come up with more and more stories. Eventually, he runs out, and just rambles. That seems to work fine as well-- so that’s what he does. Every night, Techno will crawl into bed and Phil will sit beside him, talking to him and rubbing his back gently. Most times, Techno will be asleep before Phil is halfway through whatever he’s saying.

Enter Wilbur, stage left. 

Everything shifts a little bit. 

Techno and Wilbur’s animosity towards each other during the first while don’t help their routines. The hostility straight up destroys any sense of normality for the most part, but after a while, things settle. Wilbur adjusts, and so does Techno, their little family become three instead of two. Wilbur is enthusiastic, talkative, and creative. He shows Phil his drawings and stories with passion, and Phil compliments them with lavish words of praise. Wilbur is smart, and clever, and notices the little things in a way similar to how Techno does.

Knowing this about him, Phil isn’t too surprised one night when Wilbur tugs on his jacket and frowns at him from his position in bed, curled up under layers of blankets and eyes wide.

“What’s up?” Phil asks, and Wilbur stares hard for a moment. 

Then, as if he’s embarrassed to be asking, blurts out: “Tell me a story.” 

Phil cocks an eyebrow, shifting slightly to sit on the bed beside him. “What kind of story?” 

“Like the ones you tell Tech.” Ah. Phil’s mind snaps all the puzzle pieces together in a flash, and it’s like a tiny epiphany. Their rooms are right next to each other-- it makes sense Wilbur would hear the soft mutterings of Phil and Techno’s routine through the walls. He shifts, getting a little more comfy, and then reaches out to nudge Wilbur down back into his pillows and ruffle his hair. 

“Alright,” Phil says, scouring his mind. “Stories.” 

And so it goes. Wilbur falls asleep much quicker than Techno ever does, so Phil adjusts their routine. He goes to Wilbur first, settles him in, then plays with his hair and speaks in low tones until Wilbur’s out like a light. Then he goes to Techno and does the same, rubbing his back and telling stories until he’s asleep. It’s a delight. He loves this bubble they’ve made, and his favorite moments are the ones when he’s tucking them in, away from his responsibilities except them, and it makes his chest swell a little.

Then comes Tommy. Tommy, with his brash voice and loud anger. Tommy, who is a problem child in every sense of the phrase. Tommy, who dances around bedtime and jumps on the bed until Phil basically has to hold him down to get him to stop and settle down. Tommy fits right into their routine like he’s always been there, clashing with Wilbur constantly and hiding behind Techno whenever the fights become too much. Phil sits with him first, squeezing his hand, and telling him stories. Tucks him in. Goes to Wilbur, ruffles his hair, tucks him in. Then Techno-- rubbing his back, speaking softly, tucking him in.

It’s precious to him, these moments. It’s these nights, sitting beside Wilbur’s bed and watching his chest rise and fall with sleep, that he wishes they’d never grow up. He wants for them to stay young and naive forever, keeping their energy and empathy and never losing the sparkle that all kids seemed to have. Even Techno, ever the analytical. It’s all he can do to sit there in the dim light of their bedrooms and not cry for everything they’re going to lose-- for everything he’s already lost.

But he doesn’t. Routine dictates he gets up, smoothes over their foreheads with a hand, and tucks them in gently. So he does, and then heads to bed himself. 

\----

Shrieks fills the air as Tommy races down the hall, grinning wildly as he hears someone giving chase behind him. He glances down to his hand where the shiny pair of glasses lay, the chains attached to either side trailing in the wind as he ducks and weaves down the corridor.

“Come back, you brat!” Techno calls from behind him, and Tommy absolutely delights in knowing he’s quicker than him. He beelines for his bedroom, wiggling through the door and slamming it shut behind, then desperately searching for a place to hide. He’s got a head start, but not by much. His gaze lands on the closet and even though it’s obvious, it’s where he chooses to go anyways. Just as he manages to squeeze himself in between the clothing and shut the door, he hears the door to his bedroom burst open.

“I heard you come in here,” Techno calls out, sounding both annoyed and bitter and amused all at once. Tommy slams a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, the cool metal of the glasses digging into his palm as he holds them close to his chest and weasels his way deeper into the closet. It’s dark in here, and he can hardly see except for the slightest sliver of light coming from in between the doors. Through them, he can hear the sounds of Techno stalking around the room.

“Come out, brat,” he calls, and something scrapes the floor as he checks under a desk. Tommy’s heart is racing. He wonders if he could make it out of the room without being caught. “I know you’re in here,” Techno says, and his voice is getting louder. Tommy tries to stifle his giggles more, biting down on his knuckles and grinning. “You’re being insufferable,” he says next, and then the doors to the closet are being thrown open. For a second, Tommy thinks he’s safe.

A hand closes around his ankle. “Gotcha.”

Tommy shrieks, “NO!” and frantically kicks, gasping for air and laughing simultaneously as Techno starts to drag him out of the piles of clothing. He still clutches the glasses close to his chest, even as he thumps to the floor and Techno swings a leg to clamber on top of them.

“Give them back!” Techno says, and his hands dig into Tommy’s sides. It dawns on him what’s about to happen a second before it does, and he can feel his eyes go wide and breath catch.

“No--” he starts again, but the protests are lost in a cacophony of giggles and laughter as Techno wriggles his fingers and forces upon him the worst torture known to man.

“Please,” he gasps, reaching out with one hand and shoving his fingers in Techno’s face, his mouth, his eyes. Still giggling. “This is my room! Get out!”

“I lived here first,” Techno deadpans, still wiggling his fingers. “It’s my house.” Tommy wails. It’s terrible.

“Mercy, I’m just a kid-- TECHNO!!” He pulls his knees up as far as he can, trying to protect himself, the tickling is terrible and he can’t breathe and he might pee his freaking pants if Techno doesn’t stop--

“What the hell is going on in here.” Wilbur’s voice cuts through the air as Tommy gives up, the glasses clattering across the floor to the side. The tickling is stopped immediately, but Tommy’s still gasping for air. 

Techno reaches out, picking the glasses up and inspecting them for a moment. Wilbur is still standing in the doorway, looking mildly confused.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, clambering off of Tommy. Tommy exhales, kicking his feet aimlessly in the air and then sticking his tongue out in both of their general directions.

“Pricks,” he calls. Techno just snorts.

“Want to go sit in the atrium?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy presses his head to the floor and regains the last of his breath before shuffling to stand up. 

“Only if I can go get the book I was readin’ before this nerd interrupted,” Techno says, and Tommy stumbles their way, grinning lightly still. His head feels light and he’s dizzy, and it’s wonderful. Wilbur regards him with a look.

“Sure,” Tommy says, because nothing sounds better than ripping up grass to rub into Wilbur’s hair right about now.

“I hate you,” Wilbur says loftily, and then turns on his heel and stomps off with his nose in the air.

Tommy just sticks his tongue out at his back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

\----

Techno lounges on the chair beside him, watching as Phil carefully pins the delicate metal symbol to his chest. They’re both done up, silver and blue and white even if there are less layers than normal due to the heat of the mid-tropics. Phil’s elytra are on and he has to actively keep them from buzzing behind him-- maybe he should’ve worn a different pair, one less indicative of his mood. But it’s too late for that now.

“I wish Wilbur was here,” Techno mutters into the silence, and Phil glances over at him as he finishes adjusting his collar.

“I brought you for a reason,” he points out, and Techno rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but Wilbur’s better with words than I am. I’m just going to sit there.” He throws a hand out, then reaches up and tucks a braid back over his ear, out of the way. Phil wonders how long they’ll last-- maybe an hour, two at the most.

“I didn’t want Wilbur to use his words. I want to use my words. You’re going to be there to unsettle them all,” he says, looking back in the mirror and then turning, leaning against the side of the desk.

“That doesn’t exactly seem fair,” Techno mutters.

“To who? Wilbur?” Phil smiles, looking over at their things and then down at his chest, where a small chain of three beads sits. He reaches up, gently messing with them and watching how the colors fit together nicely. Three beads for three boys. Pink, yellow, red.

“Yeah.” 

“He’ll get to come next time. I want to make a certain impression, here.” Phil looks over at Techno, who meets his gaze without hesitation. He can see the wheels turning in his head-- Techno’s smart for a fourteen-year-old. Incredibly so. 

“A strong one,” he says slowly, and Phil knows he’s got it. 

“Exactly. And you--” Phil reaches out, tapping Techno’s nose and watching his face crumple up in displeasure. “--are strong.” 

“But this is diplomacy,” Techno says, waving his hand in front of his face and pushing Phil’s fingers away from his nose. “Not war.”

“Diplomacy is all about impressions,” Phil tells him, and this is a lesson that needs to be learnt, so he stares Techno dead-on as he says it. “It’s not about wit, or fighting, or skill. It’s about what others think of you. And we need them to see that we’re strong. Because we are, and anything that they try to do to us will come with consequences. I want to prove that without actually having to take action against anyone.”

“But we could,” Techno points out. “We have. Easily.” 

“We could,” Phil says, shrugging lightly. “But we won’t. Because then others would think we’re cruel. Remember, impressions.”

Techno’s nose crumples again, all on it’s own this time. “This is confusing,” he complains, and Phil just laughs quietly, pushing off the edge of the desk and going over to sheathe his sword at his hip. Techno follows after a moment, hesitant.

“You’ll learn,” Phil tells him, turning and gently ruffling the top of his head. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

“Impressions,” Techno repeats, scowling slightly and reaching up to fix his hair once again. Phil laughs, full-bellied and delighted.

“Exactly.” 

\----

Tommy stares at the door in front of him, then glances around again. The hallway is cold and empty and he is alone-- the click of the door handle echoes when he reaches out and opens it.

Phil’s study isn’t exactly a forbidden place. Tommy’s been here before, dancing around the edge of the desk and laughing at jokes and sometimes, late at night, curling up in front of the fireplace and letting his eyes drift shut. Phil had managed to convince him for a few months that the rug in front of the fireplace was magic: if he fell asleep on it, he’d wake up in his bed! Tommy had been entranced by the teleportation for a little bit, and stubbornly one night waited with his eyes shut tight for it to happen. All he’d felt had been warm arms pick him up and carry him out. No magic, no teleportation.

Tommy’s older now. He doesn’t subscribe to Phil’s fruitless tales of domestic magical items. 

Except one.

Phil’s study is a warm place, but now, without him here, it’s just cold. He’s been gone for nearly a week and a half now-- Technoblade too. So it’s been just Wilbur and Tommy, Tommy and Wilbur, and Tommy’s been dying for something to do other than bother his older brother or work on schoolwork. He can’t even leave the palace when Phil’s gone. Something about war on the horizon, people clashing, fights coming their way. He can only watch the city move and shift from above, standing on a balcony and folding his nose into his arms and staring at the tiny people. He’s been so incredibly terribly horribly _bored_ \-- which leads him here. Phil’s study, with its stone walls and hanging tapestries, large enough for Tommy to fit behind and hide. Blue and silver and white echoes around the room, a large dark oak desk in the center of it all. There’s a painting on the far wall of all four of them, and Tommy can recall the days it was painted, the stiff collar around his neck and the urge to run and jump and play. Phil had told him he couldn’t, though, so he’d sat still and tried to listen. His face is immortalized in paint now, smiling big and wide. Staring up at it, Tommy thinks the painter got the color of his eyes wrong. Oh well.

There are a few other decorations around the room, but none of that is what Tommy’s here for. No, he’s here for something much, much more precious, locked away in a trunk in the back of the room. He makes his way over, grinning slightly as he slips the shaped thin metal out of his pocket and kneels in front of the dark wood. It’s an expensive looking chest; there are delicate carvings of wings and birds and bugs and dragons all across it, echoes of wings and magic settled into the shadows of the wood. It’s pretty. The lock on it is heavy and thick metal, but Tommy’s been reading books and he’s started to become a bit of a kleptomaniac. Plus, Techno always leaves his door locked, so this skill has become pretty useful.

It takes him a good ten minutes, but eventually, the lock clicks. 

Tommy opens the chest.

There’s a wave of something warm washing over him, followed by an immediate chill that seeps deep, deep into his bones. Tommy’s not an idiot-- he knows magic when he feels it. It feels like Phil. It tastes like Phil, surrounding him with warm feathers and a story before bed. It’s epic. 

The trunk is divided into three compartments, separated by thin wooden linings. Three boxes inside of one. Two of them are empty. No surprise, since Phil is away, and he often takes two pairs of the elytra with him. But he always leaves one pair behind-- Tommy reaches out, downy feathers caressing the palms of his hands as he lifts the delicate instruments from their spot on the far left container. 

In his hands, the elytra are smaller than in Phil’s. It’s odd. There’s a golden chain around the front that he struggles with for a moment, unclipping it and then swinging the feathered cloak around his shoulders. It drapes to the floor, long enough to drag a few feet, but the moment it settles comfortably on his shoulders it shrinks below him and fits him immediately. And they’re warm-- warmer than any jacket or cloak Phil has ever given him. The magic settles around him and tastes like starbursts in his mouth, the golden chain clicking into place around his chest.

Something shuffles on his back. 

Carefully, so he doesn’t break anything, Tommy turns his head with breath held. There, lying against his shoulder blades, wings gently form and take shape. They’re pretty-- on Phil, they’ve always been this greyish-purple color. Tommy, though, can see almost tints of red on the underside of the feathers. There are less of them. If Tommy himself were any more observant and knew more about birds, he would notice how the wings are in fact, younger. How they shift to match his own age, his own experience, and how they fit him like a pair of well-worn gloves. These wings are not his, no-- but they know him. They know him well enough to settle comfortably on his shoulders and rise out behind him like guards. 

Curiously, Tommy gives them an experimental flap. They obey unconsciously, papers on Phil’s desk rising and shuffling with the accompanying wind that comes with their movement.

“Holy crap,” Tommy whispers, then when he realizes he’s alone, “Holy  _ shit _ .” 

He has to try to fly.

There’s no way he can’t try to fly. They’re wings! They’re attached to him and listening to him and sitting there, poised to try and fly! Tommy knows he can’t leave this room without the risk of being spotted by anyone (and oh boy would he get a lecture for this) so instead, he simply clambers on top of Phil’s desk. The study is a fairly large room, with it’s darkened fireplace and arching ceilings, so Tommy simply stares up at the wooden beams above him and plants his feet firmly on the top of Phil’s desk. He glances behind himself once, then up above again.

According to the legend of Peter Pan, all you had to do to fly was think happy thoughts. Tommy never really liked that story when Techno told it to him. It always ended with the pirates winning, and Peter Pan dying, and Wendy falling from the sky into the ocean where all the hungry mermaids were waiting. It didn’t seem like it’d be easy to fly in that story-- happy thoughts overshadowed by the bad ones, worry about the mermaids and the pirates and the Lost Boys trying to shoot you down. Fortunately for Tommy, all he has to do is stare at the ceiling and think:  _ up _ . 

Up he goes. Right into the ceiling, where he bumps his head and cries out near immediately. That’s going to leave a mark, he thinks to himself, rubbing at his forehead and glaring at the offending wooden beam he’d launched himself right into. His feet dangle beneath him-- above him, a ceiling.

He’s hovering.

“Oh my god,” Tommy says to nobody in particular, as he takes in the flapping wings behind him and the mess of papers that is being made below him. “Oh my god!!!!!!” 

The wings respond to him in tiny, unconscious movements. He needs to drop down a little-- he drops down. It’s a bit startling but the wings catch him, and then he’s hovering in the center of Phil’s study with wind ruffling his hair and laughter caught in his throat. 

It’s amazing. It’s no wonder Phil will spend hours on the mountain like this, flying back and forth and back and forth. He’s not even outside, and Tommy is having a glorious time. He glances toward the window and the balcony outside-- should he risk it? Should he try and go outside and really see what these things can do?

Below him, something crashes and shatters. It startles him, enough so that the wings shudder and then he’s falling-- right onto the wood of Phil’s desk. The crack of his body on the hard wood is painful enough, and he can already feel the ache that he’ll wake up to tomorrow. All of this is overshadowed by the sheer, terrible panic that courses through him when he scrambles to his feet, slipping off the desk and staring around. 

Phil’s study is no longer pristine. Papers scatter the floor, a paperweight shattered on the ground. The desk is a proper mess, no thanks to Tommy standing on it, and evidence of his transgressions lie around everywhere. Feathers, even, tinted red lay scattered across the floor. Behind him, the wings pull into his back unconsciously as Tommy takes the mess in.

He can’t clean this up by himself. 

“What the fuck,” says someone from behind him, and well, maybe he won’t have to.

“Wilbur!” Tommy’s spine straightens, his fingers find the golden clasp on one shoulder and in smooth motion (or what he thinks is smooth) he unclips it, tossing the feathered cloak to the side and turning around like maybe, if he puffs his chest out enough, Wilbur won’t be able to see what he’s done. 

That is not the case. Wilbur is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, darting from one thing to another until finally, they land on Tommy.

“What the hell have you done?” He asks, and Tommy shuffles from foot to foot. 

“Uhm,” he says, ever the eloquent, “well. You see. I was in here looking for an extra pen! I thought it might be in that trunk over there so I went to open it and look for a quill or maybe some extra parchment-- you know Phil, always prepared-- because I had to do my essay! So I was trying to do my essay! And I found-- well, there wasn’t any parchment, see, but I did find--”

Wilbur’s face is staring at him, unblinking, and Tommy’s mouth moves faster as the anxiety builds up in his chest.

“I found those! So I thought hey, what’s the harm in trying on a cloak? It’s cold in here! The fire’s out! Nobody likes being cold, so I put it on and woah! I’ve got wings!?! Pretty freaking cool--” 

“Tommy.” Wilbur’s voice stops him in his tracks, and now Tommy can’t even bear to look at him. He looks at the floor instead, staring at a stray piece of paper and pretending if he looks hard enough, he’ll burn a hole right through the floor. Footsteps echo as Wilbur enters the room further, door shutting behind him. “Phil is going to kill us.” 

“Please help me,” Tommy says, shrinking in on himself. “I didn’t mean to make a mess.” 

Wilbur is silent, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder. He can’t help himself-- Tommy glances up, finds Wilbur’s gaze elsewhere. He’s staring at the elytra, an unreadable expression on his face. Wilbur’s always been good at hiding emotion-- not like Techno, Techno who wears his emotions on his sleeve and Tommy who wears them boldly on his heart. Wilbur’s always curled them up and away from everyone else. Despite that, he’s still amazing. Despite the annoyance Tommy knows he is, he insists on adoring Wilbur to no end. Wilbur, nice Wilbur, witty Wilbur, fantastic Wil. Wilbur, who will surely get him out of this terrible situation that is admittedly his own fault.

“Please,” Tommy says again. It’s pitiful. He knows he’s pitiful-- just like he knows Wilbur is not immune to childish charms.

“Fine,” Wilbur hisses, glancing around, and then motioning with one hand. “You get the papers and put them back on the desk. I’ll fold up the elytra. Leave the glass.” Tommy, through his nervous shaking hands and hot worried burn in his eyes, shifts and kneels to start tugging at papers. Thankfully, they’re numbered, Phil’s neat print in the corner of every sheet. It lets him place them carefully in order, shuffling. Beside him, Wilbur picks up the elytra from where he’d dropped it, folding it with gentle care and moving to put it back in the chest. 

The lock clicks. Tommy can’t keep it in anymore. “What do we do when he asks about it? He’s going to know. He can’t not know! He’s Phil!” He laments, staring down at the papers and vaguely reading a line. Trade agreements. Something about potatoes, it’s a letter from someone named Squid. He doesn’t absorb any of the information though, just piling the next paper on top. Wilbur sighs, coming over with the click of his heels as he kneels and gently starts helping. 

“We lie,” he says simply. 

Tommy blinks. His hands go still. “What?”

“You know what lying is, Tommy, you do it all the time,” Wilbur says, rolling his eyes aimlessly. He glances up. “It’s easy.” 

“Yeah, but Phil will  _ know _ ,” Tommy insists, because he’s sure he will. Phil’s always noticed the little things, whether it be a bruise creeping out from his sleeve from a spar with Techno or a stain on his shirt. Tommy’s not even a good liar-- Wilbur, however, is. 

“Not if we lie well enough,” he explains. “Let me do most of the talking. We were never in here. We don’t even know where the key is.” 

“To be fair, I don’t know where the key is,” Tommy admits, glancing up at Wilbur and catching the mildly disapproving look thrown his way. “What! I don’t!” 

“I can’t believe I’m going to cover for you,” Wilbur mutters, glancing over Tommy’s shoulder as he carefully finishes lining the papers up. He can’t remember exactly where they’d been on the desk, but after a second Wilbur shuffles them over to a corner and yeah, that looks about right. “Pick up every feather you see.” 

Tommy picks up every feather he sees. He even gets on his knees, peering under the desk and sweeping his arm around, both of them craning their necks to stare up at the ceiling and make sure nothing is missed in their careful clean-up operation. Eventually, the only thing left is the paperweight, glass shards lying strewn across the floor.

“What do we do about that?” Tommy asks, wringing his hands as Wilbur plucks one last bit of reddish fluff from the carpet. “The paperweight?”

“We weren’t in here, Tommy,” Wilbur says, his tone even. “It must’ve fallen on it’s own.”

“....it must’ve fallen on it’s own.”

“Yup.” Wilbur meets his gaze, steady eyes to Tommy’s wavering own. “We were in my room all day, you were pestering me, and then finally we went and pestered Techno together and went to the atrium.”

Tommy repeats, the story settling in. “We were in your room since breakfast. I pestered you. We pestered Techno. But we haven’t yet?”

“We’re about to,” Wilbur says, hands grasping Tommy’s shoulders and steering him out of the room. He yelps, then laughs nervously, the door clicking closed behind them and silence settling over the hall. He can see Wilbur fumble with his sleeve, then his hair, and then any other signs of nerves are gone as he turns to face Tommy again. “We were never here.”

“Nope,” Tommy says, singsong, and he feels… better now as they head down the hall towards Techno’s room. Not too great about lying, but if Wilbur’s okay with it, Tommy can be too.

Phil comes home and asks about the paperweight. They lie. Phil hums, frowns, and says nothing. 

The flying was worth the guilty feeling. Tommy tells himself he won’t make lying like this a habit (which turns out to be a lie in itself). 

\----

Tommy yells, the sound bouncing around the courtyard and echoing in the chamber. It’s what Phil gets for putting a ceiling on the place, even if it keeps it warm enough to grow the occasional plant in. He grimaces, and Tommy shouts again. That’s just how he is, really-- ten years old and enthusiastic enough to rally an army to war if he tried. Louder than the church bells that go off at sunset every night and enough energy in him he could power the whole redstone grid. It’s no surprise he’s shouting now, sword in hand and chestplate hanging off of his thin frame. Even as he’s filled out and gotten taller, he’s stayed lanky.

“Shut up,” Techno mutters, tucking his arm behind his back and holding his sword out with the other, at perfect ease. “The enemy could hear you coming a million miles away.”

“Good!” Tommy settles his feet in the dirt, grasping the sword handle with two hands and grinning. “Let them. I’ll be ready!”

“Not with your feet off balance like that.” Techno nods his head towards Tommy’s stance, and in the moments he takes to look down and try to correct it, Techno swoops in and knocks him flat. Tommy shrieks, landing with a thud in the dirt and a sword under his chin. “I win again.”

“Again! Twenty three out of forty five!” Tommy says. It’s hardly a second before Techno’s rolling his eyes but letting him up and out of the dirt, agreeing with a simple nod, and they’re back at it again.

Beside him, footsteps in the grass, and then a thump. Phil looks over and finds his middle son. Wilbur’s hair is getting long, he notices, and he’s grasping a book in hand.

“I could hear Tommy from my bedroom,” he complains, settling in the soft grass and turning to lean his back against Phil. Phil doesn’t complain, instead leaning to support himself with one hand and using the other to tug Wilbur closer, tucking him neatly against his side. He’s got his elytra on as usual-- the winged pair, so it’s easy for Phil to drape a wing over Wilbur’s side and encompass him fully, blocking any remaining chill out as they sit and watch the other two spar.

“He is pretty loud,” Phil admits, turning his eyes back to them. Tommy’s in the dirt again, complaining and rolling over and being helped back to his feet. “He’ll learn. Give him some time.”

“I spar far less and am still better than him,” Wilbur points out, cracking open his book. “I can even beat Techno, as long as he’s deathly ill and wearing weights on his ankles.” It’s musical theory from the glimpses Phil gets of the pages, and he reminds himself to check the trade books to see if the guitar strings have come in for him just yet. He’d asked for them a while ago, ever since Wilbur had shown an interest in the guitar. He turns his thoughts back to the conversation at hand after a moment. 

“Yes, but Tommy’s younger. Once he grows up I imagine he’ll be quite the force of nature.” Phil laughs slightly, watching carefully as dust poofs up from the floor. This time, however, Tommy launches himself right out of the dirt and back towards Techno, forgoing the sword and just using fists instead. They know to pull their punches, but it doesn’t make Phil wince any less when a good blow is landed on one or the other. Tommy’s better at street fighting than swords, but Techno still manages to pin him down. Beside him, Wilbur shifts, and when Phil glances down he finds Wilbur staring at the others with an odd expression on his face, book forgotten in his lap.

“You alright?” Phil asks quietly, and Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow.

“I wish I was like them,” he says softly, and Phil shuffles the elytra to encircle them a bit more and give them privacy. He cuts off Wilbur’s line of sight to Techno and Tommy as well, but doesn’t push. He knows Wilbur will explain, and after a minute or two of tense silence, he does. “They’re both smart and good at fighting. They like it, like you do. I don’t. Armor’s clunky and I don’t see the appeal of drawing blood from others.”

“Wilbur, that’s not a bad thing--” Phil begins, a familiar spiel that they’d had before over dinner, but Wilbur cuts him off this time.

“Yeah, but you’d prefer it, right? If I was like them? You like having soldiers. I’m not a soldier.” Oh. Phil stares at him, and Wilbur purposefully does not look back at him, eyes trained on a distant tree over the edge of his wing. Phil sighs slightly, reaching out to brush the hair back from Wilbur’s forehead.

“No, Wilbur, you’re not. You are absolutely not a soldier. You’re a general. Do you know what generals do?” He asks.

Wilbur hesitates, staring at the rippling feathers in front of him as he pulls at their tutoring. “....they command the units under them,” he says after a moment, glancing up at Phil. He nods, smiling, and Wilbur smiles a bit then too.

“Right. They strategize. They’re crucial to winning when it comes down to it, and most of them don’t do any real fighting. Some never even step on the battlefield, if they climbed the ranks in other ways. They’re smart. They know patterns and see the blueprints of war like chess boards.” Phil reaches out, poking Wilbur’s chest gently. “And you, you are very much like a general. You rally both of those two like no one else can,” Phil says, lifting the elytra slightly to reveal Tommy and Techno, still going at it. “You plan whatever little heist of the week is going on, and usually it goes off without a hitch, doesn’t it?”

“It would, if Tommy was quieter,” Wilbur admits, tipping his head slightly. His gaze is on his brothers, unmoving. Phil smiles a little.

“See?” He asks, reaching out again to tug Wilbur into his side more firmly and hold him there in a hug. “I don’t want you to be like them. I want  _ you _ to be like  _ you _ . You’re Wilbur. I could never ask for more.” He holds Wilbur there for a long moment, feeling as the kid tucks his head into the crook of his arm and wing and breathes there, warm stuttery breaths. They sit there for a good few minutes, quiet as Wilbur absorbs those words and Phil just holds him close.

“I love you,” Phil says quietly, breaking their silence as Tommy once again shrieks in the distance.

“Thanks, dad,” Wilbur says, untucking his head from Phil’s shoulder and rolling his eyes. For all his multisyllable words and smarts and insecurities, he’s still a fourteen-year-old boy who finds declarations of love “cringey.” Phil tries to remind himself of that every day, how they’re just children-- he wonders how often he fails. Shoving that thought out of his mind, he reaches up, ruffling Wilbur’s hair just enough for it to spill into his eyes and block his vision. He laughs as Wil ducks down to fix it, coming back up scowling and tugging at a curl.

“You need a haircut,” he tells him, wings shuffling as he stretches them out, back and forth, and catching the attention of the boys in the dirt. Tommy bounds over first, a bruise blossoming on his cheek and stains littering his clothes. Techno follows, hands clasped behind his back and eyeing Wilbur for a second before also turning his attention to Tommy, already complaining loudly. Phil sighs, examining the bruise and listening to the complaints and turning his attention to the others. Techno’s not supposed to leave marks, and no Tommy, you cannot hit him back as revenge, and--

And in the chaos of it all, Wilbur sinks his fingers a little deeper into the grass, frown unnoticed by all.

\----

Tommy thinks his brothers might be very stupid.

It’s not just an opinion, really. They’ve proven it time and time again, simply by ignoring him or underestimating him. Tommy knows he’s the youngest, and he knows he’s annoying and mischievous and that his pranks and ideas cause problems, but it’s fun. It’s so very fun. The problem with his brothers is that they think he’s too young to really understand some things about the world, which is very not true and stupid of them to think.

For as smart as they want to be, they are dumb.

Tommy trails along behind the two, watching carefully as they discuss something or other and pace the atrium. He’d tuned out of the conversation ages ago, instead just choosing to follow along quietly. If his brothers were smarter, they’d recognize that him being quiet usually meant he was up to no good-- they hadn’t caught on yet, however. Techno did occasionally turn around and give Tommy a look, like he was expecting something out of him, but Tommy was biding his time and just shrugged at him every time he turned around. That was better. 

The second thing Tommy thinks about his brothers is that they are too tall. Ever since Wilbur turned sixteen, his legs had been growing a mile a minute. He practically towered over Tommy (who was sure his own growth spurt was coming. It had to be!) and was easily coming up to Techno’s height. Phil had commented on it at dinner the other night, teasing about how Wilbur would be the tallest in their whole family by the time he was done growing. Tommy found that reprehensible.  _ He _ was going to be the tallest, of course. Not Wilbur, whose hair was dumb and curly and brown, and who sang songs out his window and talked about girls. Girls were stupid, anyways. Just like Wilbur. Tommy at least knew he had Techno on his side for that argument-- girls were definitely stupid. Techno insisted his lack of girls had nothing to do with his boring interests and more to do with his responsibilities and social skills. Tommy thinks maybe Techno’s lying (it’s probably a bit of both). 

Regardless, Tommy has two stupid, tall brothers, who never learn their lessons.

It takes them a solid ten minutes to turn around and realize he’s gone. By the time they have, he’s already out the side gate of the palace and bounding down the side alleys. It’s a route he’s taken a hundred times over, and he doesn’t hesitate to hop over a fence and into a backyard. Tommy’s not scared of a little trespassing, no sir. He’s a prince. He can do what he wants.

“TUBBO!” He yells, looking around the barren grass for a second. No one’s outside, despite it being a relatively sunny and nice day. He’s already sweating, actually, so he doesn’t hesitate to strip off his outer coat in favor of just his under jacket. By the time he’s struggled out of his hood, someone’s in front of him and giggling at his struggle. “Don’t be a bi- don’t be rude,” Tommy says, correcting himself halfway through the sentence. “Help me!”

“You’re already done,” Tubbo points out, raising a hand to point at Tommy’s jacket. The other hand is holding a bowl, something red and fizzly inside. “Leave it out here, it’s dirty. Come on.”

“But it’s so nice out,” Tommy whines, draping his coat over the fence near the back door and following Tubbo reluctantly outside. “Can’t we go out? To the market or some shit.”

“You’ve been hanging around the street kids too much,” Tubbo tells him, grinning at his use of language and instead setting the bowl down on the table inside. This house is small, especially compared to what Tommy’s used to, but one of the first lessons he learned inside of it was not to point stuff like that out. The second lesson he’d learned had been that maybe people outside his family weren’t all terrible, like Techno had told him. Tubbo was nice. Tubbo was, dare he say it, a friend. 

A secret friend, who lived in a tiny house in the city below his family’s palace and worked normal jobs and lived their lives without anyone bothering them. 

“Says you. You said worse last week to Deo,” Tommy points out, watching as Tubbo winces.

“I’ve got chores,” he informs Tommy, changing the subject without much thought to it. “And schoolwork.”

“So do I. Want to do it together? We can go lie in the grass and try.”

“No, it’s okay. I’d rather hang out!” Tubbo turns, grinning at him. He’s got a smudge of redstone on his cheek, and Tommy tips his head to the bowl where it surely came from.

“You sure? You’re going to get in trouble. Sam might yell at you,” he points out, but Tubbo just laughs. Tubbo’s like that.

“Sam doesn’t yell, don’t be dumb. Plus, aren’t you going to get in trouble? You’re not supposed to be out here.” Tubbo turns away from him again, messing around with the bowl and dumping a few things from other bowls on the table into it. There are lots of bowls in Tubbo’s house, constantly filled with things and being mixed with others. That was the importance of their house, Tommy knew. The bowls. He was almost impressed by how Tubbo kept track of them all.

He would never tell him that, though. Instead, he raises his voice, a bit defensive. “What! How the hell do you even know that??”

Tubbo snickers. “Just a hunch. You proved me right!” He sounds triumphant in this, and when he turns around again the bowl in his hand is glowing.

This is normal, Tommy reminds himself, following along as Tubbo heads outside again and starts to sprinkle the mixture over a certain spot in their back garden. The fine red mist settles against the pale ground of the tundra, before sinking in gently and completely disappearing.

Normal.

“How’re your brothers?” Tubbo asks, humming under his breath slightly as they move along. Tommy jumps on that conversation starter like Tubbo’s struck flint and steel together, wanting to fill the silence that had uncomfortably settled over them.

“They’re annoying,” he immediately complains, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. Tubbo hums again. “Techno’s been spending all his time with Phil lately, and doing important shit. Wilbur’s been locked up in his room, ignoring me, or being forced to spend time with me and hating it. He always carries around this guitar, sings shit. He’s got this song, right. He’s all like hey-- hey, I’m in love with a woman, who is a girl. Hmm, hmm, interesting! Indeed! Stupid shit! Nobody cares about women, much less me. Or the girl he’s writing it for. I’ve seen her-- she’s eh. Plus, school.”

“Ew, school,” Tubbo comments.

“Right!” Tommy forges on. “It’s the stupidest thing! I’m being taught history I lived through, like, yeah, I know already! I was there! While they signed the fucking treaty of the lake, like, yeah--”

“You probably weren’t paying attention.”

“Oh, screw you, I mean yeah, I didn’t, but still. I was there. Technically.”

“You were what, six?” Tubbo turns, giving him a grin, and Tommy reaches out to bop his knuckles against his shoulder. The bowl in his hand is empty now, and Tubbo lifts it to shake it in Tommy’s face. “I bet you signed the treaty in crayon.”

“I hate you so much,” he grumbles, watching as Tubbo’s grin splits over his face wider. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t!” Tubbo tells him, bumping the bowl against his chest and leaving red sparkles against his jacket. Tommy brushes them off briskly, wrinkling his nose as he glances down to do so. When he glances up, Tubbo’s eyes are locked over his shoulder at a point somewhere beyond them, mouth hanging open slightly.

“Dude, that’s so gross,” Tommy comments. “You’re going to catch fli--”

He cuts himself off, halfway through turning around. Because of course this is how today is going to go. Of course. 

Techno’s leaning against the fence, staring them both down. It’s the kind of stare that’s usually reserved for when Phil gives him a gentle nudge with the elbow, the stare he pulls out during trade negotiations that could definitely be filed under “unethical.” The type of stare that could snap fire into existence. It’s the stare that Tommy never, ever wants to be on the other side of.

He raises his hand and waves, already feeling meek.

“Is this where you’ve been coming?” Techno asks, glancing around the small yard. “Whenever you shake us off?”

“I don’t really shake you off,” Tommy points out, feeling Tubbo shuffle slightly behind him until he’s fully hidden from view. He doesn’t blame him one bit. Wilbur’s there too after a second, appearing over the fence and landing with a thud. Shit. Now they’re both there and look pissed. Tommy stands his ground. “Most of the time, actually, you’re the ones ignoring me, so I go do my own things.”

“Your own thing, outside of home,” Wilbur says, crossing his arms. Techno’s still glaring. Tommy’s not stupid-- he knows it’s just an intimidation technique.

“How’d you find me?” Tommy snaps, wanting to get this over with. “You weren’t even paying attention when I left.”

“You’re not exactly Mr. Stealth,” Techno says dryly. “Footprints and helpful passerby.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy mutters under his breath, glancing behind him. Tubbo’s glancing in between them with a look that is clearly saying _ I’m out of my depth _ . “C’mon, Tubbo, let’s go inside.”

“No, hold on.” Techno’s hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and warm, before they make it in. Tommy easily shrugs it off, whipping around to face him. 

“Leave me alone!” He shouts. The words echo off the walls around them, caged in by the stone and making them seem forceful. Techno’s glare breaks and for a second he almost seems surprised. Behind him, Wilbur clearly is. Tommy’s shouted at them before, but something must be different this time, even if he himself can’t place his finger on it just yet. “Just, leave me alone,” he says again, quieter. Behind him, Tubbo’s inching inside.

“You’re not even going to introduce us to your friend?” Wilbur asks, leaning to try and get a peek. Tommy holds his arm out.

“No,” he says, watching as his brothers exchange a glance. He hates it when they do that, talking without words.

“Too bad,” Techno says, and then Tommy’s forcefully being nudged inside. “In. It’s cold out here.”

“It’s actually quite a nice day,” Tubbo pipes up, but a moment later he’s immediately silent as both older princes start to shove their way inside. He busies himself with cleaning off the table for now as Tommy stares, standing beside the door as Techno and Wilbur take in the state of the house and some of the things lying about. They look entirely foreign. Tommy thinks he’s settled in a bit at Tubbo’s place, but this is ridiculous.

“You-- I-- get out! What! No!” He regains his voice after a split second of stunned silence. Anger is rising in him quick, hotter than the constant flame in the hearth of Tubbo’s home. It rises. “I told you to leave! This isn’t your place!”

“It’s not yours, either,” Wilbur points out, turning his head to where Tubbo is standing in the door of their pantry. His best friend freezes a little bit, staring right back at Wilbur. “Do you mind if we come in-- what was it? Tubbo?”

“Uhm,” Tubbo says, clearly uncomfortable. Tommy seethes.

“He does mind,” Tommy insists, stomping around and getting a good shove on Techno, who hardly moves as he does it. He tries again, and after ultimately failing, goes to Wilbur instead. Techno will always follow Wilbur, anyways. Wilbur just snickers as Tommy shoves at him, pushing wildly to try and force him out the door. “It’s not your house and you weren’t invited. Leave!”

“Technically you could say it’s ours,” Techno points out. “Considering Phil owns the kingdom, so by extension, we do.”

“I know you know what private property is!!!” Tommy exclaims, giving Wilbur another big shove and watching with a mild sort of glee as he nearly bounces into the wall. He’s just so fucking mad. “So get off of it! You. Weren’t. Invited.”

“Fucking hell,” Wilbur mutters, catching himself against the wall and glaring at Tommy. “Sue us for being interested and a bit worried about where you’d gone off to, brat.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy spits out again, and why is he being so… aggressive about this? It baffles him just as much as it seems to baffle Wilbur and Techno, based on their expressions as he continues. “I’m not a baby, you don’t have to treat me like one. Now get out of Tubbo’s house and leave us alone, I don’t want you here, you’re both boring as shit--”

“Watch the language--”

“Fuck you!” Tommy gives Wilbur another shove, and for a second, there’s hurt splayed clearly across his face. A hand on his shoulder stops him, and he nearly shrugs it off before he realizes it’s Tubbo and not Techno. 

“Tommy,” he says, still with a confused, sort of frightened look. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Tommy mutters, although he feels the fire sort of settle for a moment. “...sorry, Tubbo.” 

“Don’t apologize to him,” Techno says, and by the way he’s linking his elbow casually with Wilbur and taking minute steps towards the door, Tommy’s aggression at least has solved this issue. His brothers aren’t usually pushovers, but hey. 

“I’m not going to apologize to you,” Tommy sneers, and Wilbur rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to tell Phil,” he says. “About you coming down here without us knowing. And making friends.” Tommy’s stomach roils, not fearful exactly just… concerned. 

Tubbo pipes up before he can, a mildly insulted: “Hey!”

So of course, Tommy stands up for him. “Tubbo is a great friend. He’s better than you are, by… by… one hundred times. A thousand times! Fine! Tell Phil! I don’t care!” He challenged, watching as Wilbur huffs a laugh and Techno impassively glances around the room.

“See you in a few hours,” Techno says, and it’s less of a request and more of a thinly veiled command.

Silence falls as the door swings shut, mild laughter coming from outside. It’s Wil’s. After another second, that disappears too. Tommy’s left, standing there still filled with anger that has nowhere to go. Behind him, Tubbo is frozen, trapped in a confused state as Tommy takes a deep breath, clenches his fists. He’ll have to get them back at some point.

Tubbo speaks up. “....uhm, Tommy--”

“I don’t-- I don’t want to talk about it. Please. They’re mean and annoying and never leave me alone anyways,” Tommy says, turning on his heel and watching as Tubbo blinks, then tips his head, and then finally takes a breath and comes to a decision. He makes his way to the table in the center of the room, bracing his hands on it, flipping one of the open books. Tommy watches, letting his hands unclench just slightly.

“....alright. We don’t have to talk about it,” Tubbo says, and Tommy’s chest loosens, bit by bit.

Yeah. Tubbo’s his best friend.

\----

There’s a knock on his door.

Tubbo is not unfamiliar with knocks. Such is the life of a cleric-in-apprenticeship. Someone will knock, Tubbo will let them in. Tubbo will send them away again with a potion or a fix to their problem, and then two minutes later another knock will come. Knocks are a part of everyday life, for him. Tubbo likes it best when they come in multiples of three, and multiples of five come in close second.

This is the ninth knock on his door today, which is a good number and puts him in a particularly chipper mood as he skips to open it. He’s got his apron on, redstone and gunpowder residue on his hands. He’s sure there’s glowstone dust smudged somewhere on his face from earlier, and the whole place reeks of regeneration potions. 

It’s a mild surprise when he opens the door and finds a tall, intimidating teenager at the door instead of a cowed old woman or errand-kid. It’s worse when he recognizes the face, immediately bowing his head.

“Your highness,” he says. The prince’s nose wrinkles, then he promptly shoves his way inside. Tubbo lets him, because Tubbo doesn’t talk back to princes. After a second, he shuts the door behind them both, clearing his throat. “Um. May I help you?”

The prince-- Techno, Tubbo thinks his name is, from the few weeks before when Tommy had accidentally led them to his house-- turns to look at him for a moment. Tubbo wants to shrink under his gaze. He feels like a tundra mouse, hiding in the drifts of the snow as a falcon drifts lazily overhead. It’s terrifying.

“What’s your name?” Techno asks, breaking the moment by turning away from him and inspecting one of the brewing stands. Tubbo blinks.

“Tubbo,” he responds immediately, because it’s an easy question.

“No, your real name.” The prince takes one of the regeneration potions, uncorking it and sniffing it lightly before returning it to the stand. He does the same to the next one.

“Toby,” Tubbo answers easily, because again, it’s an easy question. “I prefer Tubbo.”

“Unimportant.” The prince turns back to face him, and Tubbo clasps his hands behind his back, nervous. His shoulders feel like they’re slumping, even though he knows his spine is as straight as an iron bar. “How did you meet Tommy?”

Something clicks in Tubbo’s head. “In the market one day,” he says, and he’s not lying. “He stole an apple from one of the stands. I helped distract the owner and let him get away so he didn’t get in trouble. He followed me home.”

“A bad influence, then,” Techno notes carefully. “What’s your interest with him?”

“Interest?” Is Tubbo supposed to be interested in Tommy?

Techno sighs, and there’s a flash of annoyance across his face before it becomes neutral again. “Why do you insist on being his friend?”

“Well-- if anything, he insists on being mine,” Tubbo says, laughing a little bit. Techno does not. His eyes narrow a little.

“What do you get out of this arrangement?” He’s clearly pushing, and Tubbo is unsure how to answer.

“Uhm.” Tubbo shuffles his feet. This conversation is confusing him to no end. “He helps me read sometimes?” 

Techno stares at him, eyes boring into his skull. Tubbo feels like he’s five again and just being introduced to Sam, the big scary cleric who would soon become like an older brother to him. Somehow, the parallels between Sam and Techno are not so hard to draw. They stand there for a moment, seemingly at an impasse. Then Techno huffs out his nose, tugs his cloak more securely over his shoulders, and plops a coin onto the counter.

“I’m taking these,” he says, collecting three of the regeneration potions that Tubbo had worked on all afternoon, and had already promised to three separate households. However, he says nothing as Techno strolls out the door and back into the sunny afternoon.

For some reason, he feels like he’s just passed some strange test.

Tubbo shuts the door and goes to remake the pots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a long break! i've got so many projects going on and with school, this has kind of taken the back burner! a lot of it is written, but hopefully it'll be finished by the end of march :) i'll probably aim to update this march 17th or at least during that week, and then the final chapter will be uploaded the week after (since the final chapter is actually done oops)
> 
> ty for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos/comment! subscribe to get email updates, and check out my other works if you like SBI and mcyt content!


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